Anagrams Run Through It All
by NineMilesNorth
Summary: Anagram-framed stories involving each crew member of A-shift and missing or wandering children.
1. Hero Calms Tike

Anagrams Run Through It All

(Shall Hunt a Roaming Rug-Rat)

A/N: This is the first of a series of tales tied together by the above anagram. Each chapter is framed by another anagram using the name of one of our six favorite firefighters. (Well, maybe not _my _favorite firefighter, but you get the idea.) Careful consideration of each of the rug-rats' names may also reveal some word play.*

Emergency! belongs to Mark VII and Universal. Beta-kudos belong to Enfleurage.

Michael Stoker

(Hero Calms Tike)

_It is raining, and I cannot breathe. Wait, I tell myself, just wait. This is not the first time I've had the breath knocked out of me, but it has been awhile. The last time was when my older brother threw me off of the top bunk in the claiming of his ultimate domination as "king of the hill." The feeling terrified me at the age of seven, and I've got to say, years later the panic is again licking at the edges of my big-boy brain. Finally, whatever atmospheric equilibrium my system has lost returns to allow that first desperate wheeze. Subsequent respirations kick in as if my lungs have not just betrayed me by forgetting how to inhale. My wandering mind considers this as a possible definition for "having the stuffing knocked right out of you". I lie still, reveling in the intake and out-whoosh of air. It makes you wonder at a baby's initial gasping moments after birth - what with first impressions being the strongest and all. Amazing that more of us are not scarred for life - then again, perhaps we are._

* * *

The most vital of body functions restored, Mike opened his eyes, only to have to squint against the rain. He considered the boulder-studded slope that angled up from where he lay. His fractured concentration worried at calculations of slope and distance: _fifty degrees? fifty-five? a tumble of... perhaps a hundred and twenty feet?_ His mind stuttered and skipped away as it searched for an anchor. There it was: a _search_, _the fall_...something else nagged at him, something urgent, something... _THE CHILD!_

His head whipped around from side to side. Roy and John and several folks at Rampart would have his hide for moving after his recent sliding descent. He could envision his future clearly: probable concussion, no pain medication, full neck and spinal precautions. Well, sadly, the members of his own personal medical community were not present at the moment, but unless his "probable concussion" came with some pretty vivid false memories, the kid they were all hunting for was.

"Hey, Foster. You there pal?" Mike called as he twisted to locate the toddler who had wandered away from his parents and the picnic area two hours ago. This movement revealed he was lying flat on his back, on a rock ledge which was so narrow that if the child _had_ been sharing it with him, he would have been crushed by Mike's not-so-graceful landing. He reconsidered the wisdom of flailing about. It _was_ a narrow little shelf, the rain _was_ making the entire hillside a slip-n-slide and his brain _had_ just sent a cease-and-desist order in the form of a shower of black spots across his vision.

He experimented with a few more of those newly appreciated breaths, in an attempt to tamp down on his stomach's response to both the wave of dizziness and the agony radiating from his left shoulder. His stomach, never an obedient beast at a time like this, refused to be subjected to cerebral dictatorship. He rolled to keep from aspirating. His shoulder's protests reached new levels, which in turn sent him...

* * *

...waking at the base of the slip-n-slide. He looked up into the grubby face of a tow-headed boy who, he guessed might answer to "Foster", if only he could spit enough mud out of his own mouth to test the theory.

Or maybe not. The kid, upon making eye contact, crab-scuttled back into the brush like Mike had snarled at him. Maybe he had uttered something akin to a growl. In his defense, it was a totally visceral response to the klaxons sounding at the base of his skull, in competition with the warnings coming from his stomach, all set against the backdrop of thrumming displeasure his damn shoulder was adding to the mix. Mike thought the kid would be lucky if he didn't hurl all over him before this little adventure played out.

_Poor kid._ Although the rain had let up, he was wet and cold and at an age Mike's sister once described as having a fully developed sense of "stranger-danger". He was terrified of this moaning, puking, _unknown _adult. Go figure. Where was this finely honed sense of self-preservation when the grubby urchin first got the urge to wander off into a forest? A forest that was teaming with hazards, the mere imagining of which was whittling years off of his mom and dad's life expectancies. _Poor kid_. Mike needed to see about halting his parents' accelerated aging process by reuniting the happy family. _Where the hell did the sun go? _Dusk seemed to have fallen during his last inadvertent snooze.

It dawned on him that he could call with the HT that was poking him in the hip from where it resided in a turnout coat pocket. _Damn, I should have called first thing - sometime after catching my breath and losing my lunch. Huh, sitting up should not be taking this much concentration, and I sure-the-hell wish it didn't hurt this much. _ "Hey, Foster, I know you're scared. It's okay, pal. My name's Mi...Mike. I'm just... gonna sit up here...and, and take out my HT and call for..."

* * *

... this time, he managed not to growl upon waking - in spite of waking to being poked in the cheek with a three-foot branch. At least the kid missed his eyeball. Foster was calling "My-Mike!" between each of his prodding efforts.

"Hey, buddy, I'm up. Why don't you put the stick down and...?" The toddler lurched to scurry away again but not before using the stick as a pivot point to turn his two-and-a-half-year old balance on. Mike was almost positive it didn't actually drill through his cheek. The kid did put the stick down, though. And he didn't disappear into the bushes, but stopped five feet away, turning to plop down on his overall covered butt. He then shoved not his thumb, but his two middle fingers into his mouth.

The child kept a watchful eye on the man lying in the mud; the silence between them broken by an occasional juicy slurp. Mike figured that if sheer determination and generated suction could draw comfort from a pair of fingers, the kid was entitled. His nieces were big fans of binkies. He himself had gnawed on the edge of a silky blanket until it mysteriously disappeared from his life at the age of four.

"Well, little guy, time to get off the stick (yeah, I know pretty pathetic, huh?) Let's you and I try that one more time. I'll sit up, and you stay put for a minute. 'Kay?"

Mike fumbled to retrieve the HT, "shit, Shit, SHIT! Pardon my mouth, little guy...'shit' is a naughty word. Good boys don't say words like that." _No_, he thought to himself, _but they sure as hell can think them_. He indulged silently for several seconds while he fiddled with an HT that _had_ been crushed by a not-so-graceful landing. "Shit! Okay, that one slipped out. You're gonna have to cut me some slack in the cursing department - these being extenuating circumstances and all." Apparently unoffended, the kid was currently grinning around the two fingers which were now hooked in ready-position over his lower teeth.

A flash of lightning caused a worried little pucker to form above a pug nose. With the follow-up thunder-clap, the concept of stranger-danger flew in the face of a greater terror and the fireman found his lap full of frantic toddler. There was no containing the noise that escaped his mouth as the child tried to climb his frame. The kid nearly toppled them both back into the mud before settling on pressing a sobbing face deep into Mike's neck.

Making what he hoped was a comforting sound through his clenched teeth, Mike rearranged various limbs so that he was supporting most of Foster's weight on his own out-stretched legs. Drawing an uneven breath, he began to scoot backwards towards the relative shelter of an overhanging rock.

This choice worried him, because he knew the guys were searching for them both by now, but the thought of holding an armload of terrified toddler in a thunderstorm eclipsed the logic of staying out in the open. Plus, it was getting fully dark and starting to rain again. The deciding factor was the return of the earlier trifecta of pounding head, swimming vision and belligerent stomach. Mike just wanted to get the kid calmed down enough to give himself time to come up with any version of a plan that didn't involve throwing up and toppling over in a dead faint again.

Which, Mike thought could very well happen sometime during this _tediously slow_, (scoot) _excruciatingly painful,_ (pause to concentrate on _not_ hurling all over the kid in his lap) _fuckingly frustrating_... he halted that train of thought before some of his silent, not-fit-for-tender-ears adverbial rant escalated into something audible.

_That last little drop was only about five feet, so things are not nearly as bad as they might have been._

"That's me, by the way, little guy," Mike looked down at his passenger after he paused to cast a glance back to gauge his progress. 'Not really a 'cup half full' kinda guy, but 'never have been able to see it as 'half empty' either. Half is, well, _half_. Plus, at least I've got a cup." Mike ended his short, one-sided dialogue panting. He took a moment to again marshal control over various mutinous bodily systems and then continued his struggle to get them all - kid, self, systems - under some kind of cover.

He set Foster against the rock face and backed out enough to give a few hollers which, for what it cost in terms of his ratcheting pain level and the possibility of alarming the kid even more, produced less than the hoped for volume. He dug through his pockets for his two-cell mag light and flashed the top of the hill-side with a slow, sweeping pattern.

"Come here Foster. How 'bout you help me make some noise? Let's see, can you say 'meow' like a kitty cat?"

"eeow"

"And what does a puppy-dog say?"

Foster smiled, warming to this familiar game. "Bow-wow, wow-wow."

"Solid work, little man... Now I'm gonna be a wolf: ow-ooooooo." Mike gingerly tipped his head back in demonstration. "Wolves sing together. Come on now, let's hear your best wolf howl."

The toddler gave a tentative "ow-woo," at first, but eventually built to a pretty impressive volume for such a little guy.

Mike finished out of breath, out of strength and once again alarmingly light-headed after adding a yelp of "Hey, we're down at the base of the cliff."

He emptied his pockets and took inventory. A pair of gloves, the flashlight, a loop of nylon webbing, two wooden door chocks, a collapsible spanner wrench... Damn, he and the guys had only just started to search, in hopes they would stumble upon the missing child before darkness settled and the predicted stormed descended. They hadn't stopped to equip themselves for any sort of outdoor survival, thinking they would be called in to regroup as soon as the SAR teams arrived. They'd been fanning out for over half an hour when he spotted what he thought could be small footprints. Following them to a ledge above a creek below, he was sure he had seen the toddler peering up at him. He'd stepped sideways to get a better view; the muddy hillside had started to move under his feet.

Making an exaggerated face, Mike shucked Foster out of his ripe diaper. "Phew-ie, kid you are rank." A quick check revealed a very muddy little boy who had somehow arrived at the base of the hill relatively unscathed. _The cup was definitely better than half full._ Passing the length of webbing through the back straps of Foster's overalls and tying a one-handed bowline, he formed a leash which Mike then cinched to his own right wrist. He left the overall legs unsnapped and tucked the child against his chest under his turnout coat.

Mike was sure he heard a whispery "shit" lisp from around soggy fingers as Foster's eyes drifted closed. This also worried him some. His sister would murder him if her girls ever picked up foul language from their uncle, so he automatically extrapolated that to mean this impressionable child's mom would take similar exception. _Still, out of the mouths of babes. _Mike gave in and closed his own eyes. Time passed; stars came out; the pair slept on.

* * *

Mike wrinkled his nose at the odor wafting from beneath his coat. Nothing for it, but now they both smelled like they had broken house training. Peeling back his canvas collar, he looked down on the sleeping kid. They were going to have to find a way to get noticed today, that or hike out... scoot out - whatever. He knew where they were, but had no idea if there was any sort of path leading from where they had spent the night. Retracing his earlier journey down the face of the hill was out of the question. He had yet to even make it to a standing position and decided it was high time he gave that a shot. His own bladder was beginning to set up a clamor so he eased his sleeping charge down to the soft, relatively dry dirt under the overhang. He had to pause after even that much effort. Sweat beaded his forehead as he leaned over the child.

Scoot back, rise to both knees, right knee up to plant a foot - a treacherous stomach rolls. Right hand braced on right knee, push up - head throbs. Gasp, retch, eyes stream. Fine. Half-way up and on his knees was just fine - a worthy and a _fine_ goal. Shuffle to the side, fumble with fastenings, and at last: some relief, from some quarter. Then a glance sideways afforded a different sort of relief as a second stream joined his in imitation.

Mike felt his face relax from rigid pain-held lines into a shadow of a grin. "Good job, little man. Stay close now; we need to get back out in the open. Let's see who can stay verticle the longest."

The kid won. Mike had to make sure that when he crumpled, the heap he formed was not on top of his new sidekick.

"Phew-ie!" Foster declared with a final clumsy pat to his new friend's back, as Mike heaved bile into the muddy earth two inches below his nose.

"Yeah, buddy. You stink, I stink, we'll both stink together."

"I proclaim this an excellent spot to attract some attention. How 'bout it little wolf, ow-ooooo," Mike began weakly and smiled in encouragement as he was joined by a more robust cub-howl. It was a misty, colorless dawn, but now that the storm had passed, he figured the search would be gearing up again.

As it turned out, the fastest mode of travel he could manage was upright, shuffling on his knees. His left arm supported by tucking it into the front of his turnout, he tugged on the toddler's leash as they made their way to the stream edge.

Mike fashioned his sternest expression as they neared the flowing water. "That's close enough little man. Why don't you sit?" A gentle tug on the webbing brought the boy to the desired position. "Now, you stay here. Don't move. Stay put." Mike held his hand out in the universal "stop" signal as he backed away from the child, trying to judge if the kid would try to follow the last bit to the water's edge.

"Shtay." Foster murmured. The fingers were back in place.

"Yeah, good boy, stay." Mike wondered fleetingly if the kid would be wagging an invisible tail and in therapy after this little chapter in his life.

"I guess I lied, buddy. I don't really have a cup. Sometimes, you just gotta make do. It took him several minutes, but Mike managed to lower himself flat and position himself to stretch his good arm to reach the flowing water below. "There, my shoe runneth over."

He broke a sweat again as he scooted the four feet back to the toddler's side.

"Here like this," Mike demonstrated proper shoe-guzzling technique, which prompted a wave of pint-sized belly laughs from his attentive audience. Mike stopped after a small swallow, thinking he didn't want to break the current truce his stomach had honored for the past forty-five minutes. "Now your turn, little guy," Mike held the shoe while Foster drank. It looked to Mike like a fair amount got down the correct pipe.

"We'll both be on a round of antibiotics after this. Can you say 'giardia'?"

The boy looked him in the eye and announced instead, "My-Mike, I hung'y."

Mike sighed, "I know, little guy. I know. Help should be coming real soon." He tipped his head back to initiate another howl-fest, which Foster again joined with enthusiasm. Mike finished with as loud a "down here, hey, we're down here," as he could muster.

Foster echoed with his own translation, "Down hewr, we's hewr!"

His little sidekick was contentedly orbiting him, still tethered by the webbing-turned kid-leash. He seemed to have found his words because he was singing what Mike interpreted as a rousing rendition of _If You're Happy and You Know It_, complete with hand claps, foot stomps and head nods. When it came to 'doing all three', the kid landed for the umpteenth time on his backside, which was also Mike's current position. He seemed to have run out of steam after his water-gathering expedition.

His vision was going spotty again, and saliva was building ominously. He scooted further from the stream's bank, urging the day's catch to follow by reeling him in. Foster giggled at the new game and leaned against the webbed restraint, both chubby legs churning in place.

Mike finally got the squirmy kid close enough to recheck the knot. He almost smiled in spite of the jarring pain, as his little fish immediately ran back out the moment he was released, obviously expecting to begin the process again. The child turned around, only to be disappointed to find that his new playmate was taking another nap.

Foster cast a worried glance at the man who continued to lie curled on his side. He toddled over to stare intently and nearly toppled forward as he tried to pry an eyelid open. His buddy did not stir. He wandered to the edge of his tethered world and decided to play the howling game again.

* * *

John and Roy rappelled down the steep incline to join the muddy SAR dog as it barked in seeming encouragement. The shepherd-mix whirled away and disappeared through the brush.

A squealed, "Hi, doggy, come play with me!" rose from the forest floor below them. An "ow-wooooo" drifted upward a moment later.

John's eyes found Roy's across the distance, and his face broke into a joy-filled grin. "Told you no self-respecting wolf would make a noise like that," he called. They were unsnapping carabiners the moment their feet touched the ground.

They came upon the scene of a boy hugging the dog while he regaled the animal with his recent adventures in excited toddler-babble. Startled mid-tale by Roy and John rushing into the glade, he tried to hide behind their recumbent friend's back - their alarmingly non-responsive friend's back.

They slowed slightly, but still advanced as the panicky kid reached the end of the orange strap.

Roy squatted down by Mike's head, taking hold of the webbing to stop the jerking of Mike's right arm. "Hey there, Foster. It's gonna be alright. My name's Roy," He reached a hand back to search for Mike's carotid, "and this is Johnny." He nodded towards his partner as John knelt at Mike's side, hands already moving over Mike's body in rapid assessment.

"Sixty-ish and steady," Roy offered as he sighed in relief. He fished the HT out of a pocket. "Engine 51, this is Squad 51. How do you read?"

"We read you, Roy," Cap's voice immediately answered.

"Cap, we've got them. The child is alert and mobile, Mike is unconscious. We'll need both stokes, blankets, the backboard, and the equipment. We're about a hundred feet from the base of the lower cliff, over."

"Copy that, Squad 51: stokes, blankets, backboard, equipment. We'll be down with some extra manpower ASAP."

The boy had gathered enough courage to crawl back to kneel by his buddy. "Shhh!," he scolded in a loud whisper, "him's sleeping." A grubby, proprietary hand settled on Mike's head.

"I see that." Roy refrained from reaching toward the boy just yet. "How 'bout I check you out while Johnny helps Mike here?"

"We's hung'y." the boy announced to the men dressed somewhat like his friend.

"We'll work on getting something into your tummy as soon as we can get you back up that hill." Roy promised as the toddler allowed him to put a hand on his forehead and to take a pulse at the crook of his elbow. The paramedic shrugged out of his dark blue jacket to wrap it around the child. He reached to untie the webbing, but Foster struggled to be released and moved to squat by Mike's head. Before either paramedic realized what he intended, the boy was prying open Mike's left eye.

"I already checked that, kiddo," John lifted Foster away and handed him back to Roy, freeing Mike's wrist from the orange loop as he did so. "Equal, but sluggish," he informed them both as Roy turned to set the child down before helping him log-roll Mike to his back.

At Mike's moan, Roy leaned close. "Mike, can you open your eyes for me? Stoker! Open your eyes."

* * *

"Open you eyes!" A little parrot perched near his head chimed in. "Wake up, My-Mike!"

Mike squinted up into two sets of blue eyes, one pair hovered a disorienting two inches above his own, only to widen in surprise when Roy once again lifted their owner out of the way.

The kid would only settle down when they gave him the job of holding My-Mike's shoe and the length of orange webbing, and then only if they let him sit at Mike's side. He immediately set to trying to place the loop back around Mike's right wrist.

Roy noted Mike's hand moved to a better angle to help the determined toddler achieve his apparent goal of re-binding himself to "My-Mike." The father of two knew better than to hazard a guess as to how that moniker had evolved, but imagined the tale of what went on while Stoker and his small friend waited for rescue might be worth hearing. However the two had become best-buds, they were going to be hard to separate, and Roy did not relish the moment when they were going to have to force the issue. "Mike, do you remember what happened?" he asked, continuing to try and get a handle on the engineer's level of consciousness.

"He falled down." Casey offered softly as he settled into the circle of Mike's right arm.

"Mike, I need _you _to try and answer. Do you remember what happened?" Making a gentle shushing sound, Roy reached over to brush the toddler's mouth in a reminder not to help.

Roy figured he'd had more alarming responses than the upward twitch of a lip, and the "I falled down." that Mike delivered on an exhaled sigh.

The promised reinforcements arrived just as John was finishing the initial assessment.

The SAR team was reunited; dog and master were playing a celebratory game of tug-of-war off to the side. Marco hailed Rampart and relayed vitals and orders. Chet reached to peel the toddler from Mike's side, but halted at the nearly super-sonic wail that the kid immediately set up. Both Roy and John moved to try to keep Foster from burrowing under the yellow blanket they had just folded around the engineer.

Suddenly, the keening wail was cut short as the child was plucked up and untangled from the webbing. Roy threw his captain a grateful look as he turned to drag the stokes basket closer to position it at Mike's side. Cap set the shocked-into-momentary-silence child into the crook of his arm and firmly informed the tike, "That's enough, young man. We need to get Mike all tucked in and ready for his ride back up the hill. How about we head over here and get you bundled up and warm so you can go up and see your mom and dad? They are waiting for you right up there." Foster's eyes followed the gesture the giant in the white-striped fire helmet made toward the top of the ridge.

Cap had to stop short to avoid running into John's upraised hand which held a shoe, of all things. Before he could do much more than raise an eyebrow in consternation, the sniffling bundle of toddler-hood reached to snag the offered item, and clutched it close like it was a Teddy bear, proclaiming it "My-Mike's shoooo."

Johnny turned his head up with a crooked grin. "Why don't you keep it safe for him, pal; make sure it doesn't get lost or anything? I'll be over in a bit to help give you a ride in your own special fireman's rescue basket, just like your buddy, Mike here. We'll get you to your mom and dad lickety-split, okay?"

Foster nodded, bringing his fingers up to his mouth, which predictably, adorably caused him to slur the rest of his response. "Wan' my momma." Cap used this moment of co-operation to stride away, one arm bracing the child, the other raising an HT to begin the process of granting that very wish.

* * *

"My-Mike!"

He'd somehow lost track of the actual number of times he had been awakened at the base of the hill by various toddler-tactics. Smiling, he wondered if Dr. Bracket could give the kid a part-time job doing hourly neuro checks on ER patients, because his small friend had a definite talent.

Mike opened his eyes when he heard someone rise from the chair at the side of the bed. His captain intercepted a cleaner version of his co-adventurer, just as the boy began an assault on the bed rails, trying for better access to his best buddy.

A young couple stood in the doorway gazing fondly at the pint-sized tornado.

"Hey, little man. I like your new overalls." Mike smiled into familiar china-blue eyes, as his captain held Foster suspended by the back straps, so the boy could deliver an enthusiastic, sloppy kiss.

"Cap, put him down before he tosses his cookies, I finally got my stomach settled, but I don't think it's ready for that type of not-so-subliminal message. Let him sit here." Mike indicated an empty spot on the right side of the bed.

The couple made their way into Mike's room. "Hello, I'm Daniel Wing, and this is my wife, Sandy." Smiling, the man reached to accept Mike's offered handshake. "We just dropped by to thank you for keeping our son safe."

The young woman who leaned over to place her hand on Mike's was the obvious source of the boy's tow-headedness. "Thank you." she said simply, before straightening to run a hand through her son's hair.

"Foster says this is yours. He slept with it last night." Mr. Wing lifted a paper sack and then turned to set it in the windowsill.

Mike waited for further explanation and wasn't kept waiting long.

"My-Mike's shoe!" the boy supplied with improved diction since his hands were busy running a Hot Wheels fire engine along the bed rail.

"He also wanted to drink from it...?" Sandy paused, both eyebrows raised in hesitant question.

"Well, Ma'am, you see, we didn't have anything else handy to use, and..."

"Of course, I meant no criticism. They told us how you took care of him even though you were injured. I was just curious." Sandy leaned back into her husband, whose arm encircled her waist. "It's not like you had a sippy-cup handy."

" 'm sorry about the antibiotics they put us on. I jus' didn't have a way to purify the stream water..."

Sandy noticed Mike was starting to slur his words and his eyes were beginning to blink owlishly with fatigue and medication. She reached to gather her son up, catching the grateful look Captain Stanley gave her. "Don't be. We are just glad you found him when you did. He barely has a scratch on him. You were the perfect guardian angel. You should rest now." The mother reached again to pat his good arm. "Your captain tells us you'll be here for another day or two, and that your shoulder will take a bit longer to heal than..." she paused with a twinkle in her eyes, "what he termed your 'incredibly hard, incredibly stubborn head.' Thank you again," she finished with a smile as she set Foster on his feet.

The lad gathered a fold of her pant leg in one hand and waved his Hot-Wheel-dedicated-hand toward Mike. Following his parents to the door, he called out a "Bye-Bye," and with what Cap could only describe as a proud grin, clearly enunciated in a sing-song voice, "shit, shit, shit." The hushed but shocked reaction of his parents could be heard as they moved down the hallway.

Hank snorted, and then wheezed as he struggled not to choke on his own spit. It had not taken any of his finely tuned, captain-ly super powers to deduce where the youngling might have picked up such a phrase. "Yep, that's you, just a perfect angel," he teased, turning back towards the bed. He swallowed the unfinished ribbing that hovered on his lips, deciding it would have to keep. He rearranged the blanket that had gotten tangled during the boy's visitation and settled back into the chair at Mike's bedside. He was more than content to listen as his engineer settled into his own soft pattern of snorts.

* * *

*A/N: If you need help with the anagram of any of the rug-rats' names, just PM me. They are just for added fun, and it is not necessary to solve them to follow the stories.


	2. Heckler Style

Anagrams Run Through It All

(Shall Hunt a Roaming Rug Rat)

A/N: This is the second installment of the Anagram Tales, a series tied together by the above anagram, each further framed by another anagram using the name of a member of A-shift as its subject. Careful consideration of the names of any rug rat roaming through the story may reveal further word play.*

Emergency! Belongs to Mark VII and Universal. Beta-kudos belong to Enfleurage.

Chester Kelly

(Heckler Style)

"I found one day in school a boy of medium size ill-treating a smaller boy. I expostulated, but he replied: 'The bigs hit me, so I hit the babies; that's fair.' In these words he epitomized the history of the human race." -Bertrand Russell, philosopher, mathematician, and author (1872-1970)-

* * *

1

"I've heard of getting 'em to eat out of your hand, but drinking out of your shoe? Now that's a new one. You ever hear of Stockholm syndrome, Mikey? Where a victim starts to bond with the guy keeping him captive, say...on a leash?"

Mike gazed at Chet over his coffee mug without rancor, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, he took his time picking out a maple bar from the two dozen assorted doughnuts that Foster Wing and his parents had just dropped off at the station to celebrate his first shift back. He tipped the box toward his captain in invitation.

"Don't call me Mikey," he said as he brushed past Chet to join Henry on the couch.

Chet sighed in resignation. It had been worth a shot, but Mike was always a hard target to get riled. He turned to consider the remaining choices in the pastry boxes. His perusal was cut short by the tones calling for Engine 51's response as well as several other companies. He snagged one of the glazed donuts because the powder from one of the more prized jelly filled delicacies would get all over the inside of the cab, not to mention the fact that he knew from past experience he could finish the glazed in two bites.

* * *

Fifty One's engine crew each turned their collars against the drizzling March rain. The morning temperature was slow to climb its way up from an overnight low that had dipped into the 40's. This was their second response to an activated alarm box at Bonita Street Elementary School in as many weeks. The squad was still a few minutes out, responding from West Carson Street as they headed back from a supply run to Rampart.

"Mike, Marco, check inside. Chet, you're with me." Captain Stanley said as he headed for the playground where he knew faculty and students would be waiting until they received an all clear signal.

Hank's eyes scanned the sea of children who seemed arranged by height, although he knew the groups actually represented individual classrooms, each with its own harried-looking teacher trying to keep the fidgety students corralled. The youngest of the soggy, shivering kids stood on the rain-slicked black-top while the older kids milled further out. He noticed slouching white anklets as they wicked the chilly damp from the grass underfoot, and corduroy covered knees bearing the water marks of restless shoving matches.

"Chet, touch bases with the teachers and make sure everyone is accounted for. I'll be over here having a chat with the principal. Keep an eye out for guilty faces." Hank turned away from his lineman as he keyed the HT he held. "LA County, this is Engine 51. There's no smoke showing at our location, students have been evacuated. Have all units responding to Bonita Elementary continue in, code one."

Moving through the crowd of students, Chet saw more than a few misery-etched faces, but none seemed to bear dodgy or particularly guarded looks. Several small groups called out begging to be allowed to go back inside. The majority of the kids and several of the faculty had their arms wrapped in self-hugs and bounced on their toes, more than eager to end this unscheduled recess. His eyes fell on one of the teachers standing in the mid distance of of the playground. His body executed an abrupt change of course before his mind consciously decided to move toward her.

Mike and Marco emerged from the front of the building accompanied by an overall-clad man, scant moments after Chet had struck up a conversation with Ms. Franklin, one of the fourth grade teachers. Mike signaled "all-clear" as he, Marco and the man who Chet guessed was probably the janitor made their way towards their captain and principal. Cap already had the HT up, and Chet again assumed all responding units were being canceled, although Truck 49 had just pulled up behind the engine. "That's our cue, Ma'am. It's safe to get your kids in out of this weather."

"I'm 'Karen' around here to anyone over the age of twelve," she responded with a smile. She turned to gently nudge the nearest students toward the building. She looked over her shoulder as she continued to herd her charges with the efficiency of a border collie - a pretty, somewhat wet shepherdess, but no "dog" by any stretch of the imagination. "Thank you... Kelly?" she ended with hesitation.

"Chet," he supplied, realizing that she must have read the stenciled letters on the back of his turnout. "Chet Kelly, and no problem." He turned abruptly at the shrill attention-seeking whistle he knew came from his captain's lips. "Gotta go..." he broke into a jog towards where the guys were waiting with knowing grins plastered on their faces. "Nice meeting you," he called as he turned back to wave, still jogging, but now moving in reverse. Karen returned the gesture before she followed the last of her students into a classroom as they filed through a side door.

Chet pulled himself into a jump seat and revised his initial assessment of one of the faces that turned toward him. "Sorry, Cap," he offered to the man wearing the long-suffering expression.

* * *

Back at the station, Hank checked the run logs of the other two shifts and found that although B-shift had not responded to Bonita in over four months; C-shift had rolled on an alarm pull at the school a week before A-shift's recent responses. He tapped his pencil on the page as he tried to decide what his next move should be. Mr. Pomeroy, the principal, could offer no real leads as to who the culprit was. He closed the logbook, having made no decisions and went in search of his men to see how the day's chores were coming along.

Hank stepped into the bunk room just as Marco moved from making his own bed to start on Chet's. It was no secret that the two linemen were currently staging what their captain thought of as a blue alert prank war. They had been trading the occasional gag back and forth over the past few weeks. Pretty low-key stuff so far, but things seemed to be escalating - still not quite enough to raise the captain's internal prank-alert status to code yellow. At that stage, they would all be on edge, watching for misdirected fire and dodging shrapnel from standing too close to one of the two official participants. Hank leaned against the doorway as he silently watched Chet's sheets be shortened with crisp, tight folds. "Do I need to enter a witness protection program?" he asked a startled Marco, before he pushed away from the doorjamb and went in search of the next member of his crew.

* * *

Chet, having finished with the day room, was taking a break and was bent over a pad of paper. "What are you working on there, pal?" Hank asked as he passed the kitchen table to get a drink of water.

"What?" Chet raised his eyes, his concentration apparently broken for a moment. "Oh, hi, Cap. I was just messing around with the letters of my name, rearranging them so they spell other words. It's called anagramming. Lots of folks throughout history believed anagrams could reveal important things about a subject."

John, who was leaning on a mop, looked over Chet's shoulder. "Huh, so that's what you call it. I had a girl friend who called me 'John Any Egg' all the time. I just thought it was a dumb nick name."

Chet snorted, "It _is_ a dumb nick name, Gage," before returning to the task of revealing hidden prophesies in his own name.

"Johnny, you are the pickiest guy I know about how you want your eggs. How come she called you that?" Marco asked from where he'd been listening from the doorway."

"I would have eaten cardboard with a smile and asked for seconds to be with that girl. I guess she just ended up thinking I liked my eggs 'any old way'. She was into all kinds of puzzles and crosswords, so it doesn't surprise me that she would know about anagrams."

"But that's not a true anagram," Mike spoke up from where he was cleaning the burnt cheese from the bottom of the oven. This was the first non-muttered phrase anyone had heard him speak for the twenty minutes that he had been trying to mitigate the pizza-cooked-straight-on-the-oven-rack mess that had accumulated and been baked into semi-permanency. He stood and stretched the kinks from his back. "'John' shouldn't be part of both the subject and its anagram. Here, let me show you."

Mike accepted the pencil and paper Chet offered him and wrote "ROY DESOTO". "We'll use Roy's name because shorter phrases are sometimes easier to anagram than really long ones. But too few letters will limit your possibilities. Give me a sec. here," Mike was back to muttering as he wrote a few letters, and paused for a moment. "There you go, a genuine anagram: 'Sooty Doer'. There's an old anagrammers' saying that describes it as 'torturing a poor word'. Anyway, you'd be surprised at what you can come up with."**

Chet reached for the pad. "Whoa, that's kinda eerie. Wait 'till I show Roy. What do you suppose it could mean?"

"Me? I think it means that you mess around with something long enough, you can make it mean almost anything. And fair warning, guys: the next time anyone bakes something in that oven without using a pan to catch the drips, it better not be me that has to use a blow torch to remove the residue again."

"On that note of thinly veiled threat, I believe it's time to finish up the chores, gentlemen. Ladder drills at 1500..."

"Wait, wait, wait - your middle name's Antonio isn't it, Marco?" Chet lifted his head from the pad he'd been furiously scribbling on. He ripped off the bottom of the sheet and handed it to his fellow lineman with a flourish and a proud, "'No Aortic Moan', there you go, pal...you're healthy as a horse."

"Aortic moan? Come on man, they have to make sense. Do you mean aortic valve murmur? Chet, that is just lame." John shoved the mop into the bucket with a little too much force, and splashed dirty water on his clean floor. "Ah, man..."

"Look who's talkin', Mr. Any Egg."

"John, Chet," Cap interrupted in warning, just before the tones interrupted _him_.

_"Squad 51, child injured, Bonita Street Elementary School, 21929 Bonita Street. Twenty-one, nine, twenty-nine, Bonita. Cross street: E. 223rd Street. Time out: 1415._

* * *

No one had to ask for particulars on the run the paramedics had just returned from because John was supplying unsolicited details with hardly a breath taken between bullet points.

"It's a good thing that kid's x-rays are clear. Man, Roy, I was afraid his neck was broken. With his hands tingling and all, he still might have some permanent damage. What would that kid Parker have done if he had paralyzed his classmate with that little stunt?"

"Johnny, I..."

"What did he think would happen when he pulled that chair out from under his friend?"

"John, I don't..."

"He wasn't thinking at all, that's what - and on an elevated stage, no less. Did you get a look at his face? I think he looked sorry. Didn't you? Sorry and surprised. Roy, how the hell could he not have realized someone could get hurt?"

Roy didn't answer as they made their way into the kitchen. John turned back towards his partner, wondering why he had grown so silent.

* * *

2

After a single day off, their next shift started out quietly enough, giving them a chance to fit in a few building inspections and Cap some time to make a fair dent in the stack of paperwork that always seemed to decorate his desk. He got up to stretch and lifted his coffee mug.

He walked into the kitchen. _Bloody hell, why couldn't he get his men to start a fresh pot as soon they drained the last? _He got the coffee can down off the middle shelf and set it none-too-gently on the counter. He turned to his crew in the day room, "I see it was 'good to the last drop' _again..._" Hank let his sarcasm die on his lips, since he was addressing the backs of four of his crew. He finished starting the coffee and then moved to see what had drawn the attention of the firemen lined up blocking his view of the couch.

"What's up, g-Ahh!" he ended in surprise as he performed an evasive maneuver. Henry had come barreling out from between Roy and Mike's legs. "What the devil has gotten into..." he started to ask, but again let the question trail off as the answer came lunging after the disappearing Bassett hound. "What in blue blazes is going on?" No one paused to enlighten their captain as the crowd followed the drama into the kitchen where Chet had cornered the dog against the back door.

"Chet, leave the dog alone before he bites you...what ARE you doing?" Hank asked in disbelief as Henry escaped once more to skitter past at an unheard of pace for a historically inert mass of dog flesh.

"Will someone please tell me what the heck is wrong with Henry? Or Chet? Why is Henry foaming at the mouth?" He was getting irritated at finding himself once again speaking to the backs of his men as they kept pace with the keystone-cop-like show that had moved out onto the apparatus bay.

Marco, wise man that he was, picked up on his captain's growing frustration.

"Chet decided the dog needed his teeth brushed, but Henry thinks Chet is loco. Who all agrees with Henry?" Four hands were raised. Hank abstained, not wanting to single out any one member of his crew of bedlamites.

"Shows what you guys know. I've been reading a book on dog care that says you should brush your dog's teeth to keep the tartar from building up. Dogs get gingivitis just like humans. And gingivitis causes bad breath. Have you gotten a whiff of Henry's lately? It could stop the engine."

Cap turned in silence. This time it was he who led the parade back into the kitchen. He settled into a chair and opened a section of the paper with an irritated snap. "Get him a bone to chew on. And find someone else to torture... no, scratch that..." Cap had to pause for a moment to think of something benign to occupy his pain-in-the-butt lineman to gain a few minutes of peace. "...go sit in that corner and work on your own anagram."

* * *

Roy's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he gazed across the day room/kitchen area. Chet had moved his anagram-cooking lab to the blackboard, and Roy could make out a few of the letters of Cap's name in bold, block print. Relieved that their captain was again in his office, he moved to Chet's side to see what kind of mischief he was stirring.

Chet jumped when Roy startled him by coming up from behind. "Hey, Roy, get a look at how 'Captain Stanley' comes out. There's really something to this anagram stuff."

"You'd best keep this one to yourself," Roy said, keeping his voice down, as he lifted the eraser to obliterate Chet's handiwork.

"Hey! What's the big idea?"

"Look, you get Cap all riled up _again, _and this becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy. Then _you _get to do all the extra detail he dreams up in honor of this new mystical meaning you want to attach to his name."

Roy supervised as a pouting Chet took the eraser and finished wiping out "_Satanic Penalty." _

* * *

It never hurt to have dinner waiting to pop in the oven if they caught a run. That was the reasoning Marco gave when he recruited Chet to help with the tuna casserole right after the lunch dishes were cleared. He had his back turned to Chet, who was sitting at the table chopping onion and celery with industry. Luckily, he wasn't noticing the apparent concentration it was taking for Marco to boil water.

Mike sat across the table facing the sous-chef and seemed engrossed in a paperback. He must have come to an amusing part, because he was smiling whenever Chet looked up.

Mike studiously kept his eyes on the page he hadn't turned for five minutes. A small grey form twitched its way from the corner of the kitchen, moseying along to the right of Chet's chair. Marco looked back at Mike and rolled his eyes at how long it was taking Chet to notice their guest. In a bold move, Marco gave the fishing line he held a sharp jerk.

The little mouse leapt forward in a fair imitation of a springing attack.

Chet caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. With a startled exclamation, he stood, sending his chair backwards until it almost crashed into the backs of Marco's knees. His right arm swung wide and he lost his grip on the prep knife. That brought Mike leaping to his feet in alarm, only to settle back onto his chair once he saw where the knife had landed.

"Wha...?" Chet turned to Mike in confusion as Marco bent to retrieve the knife. "Mike, are you okay? What's wrong?" He reached to support his co-worker who had missed the edge of his chair and was now doubled over on the floor. He pulled back in dawning understanding when Mike lifted his head from his shaking shoulders.

Laughing, Marco carefully wiped at his tearing eyes with the back of the hand holding the knife. He held the rubber mouse up by its tail. "Well, Chet, now you've done it. You've gone and killed Herbert's little brother, I hope you're happy."

It took them several minutes to clean up the scattered vegetables, and re-chop some replacements. It didn't speed things up that every time Mike or Marco's eyes met they would break into snorts of laughter. Cap poked his head into the kitchen to find out what was a-foot. Chet finally stomped off when they couldn't even get through the re-telling of the tale without having to pause to take great gasps of air.

Roy and John had just stepped out of the squad, and exchanged a look of concern as Chet brushed by them on his way to the bunk room, muttering something about hyenas and knives. Cap paused outside of his office, chuckling. Somewhat less concerned that Chet was any more deranged than usual, they turned to head for the washroom, needing to clean up after their last run.

When the tones sounded a moment later, six men scrambled from all corners of the station.

* * *

Principal Pomeroy met them at the curb and escorted Captain Stanley to the front steps where they were met by Lieutenant Bragg of the LA County Sheriff's Department. Roy and John instantly gravitated towards the distraught woman who turned out to be the missing child's mother. The child turned out to be Parker Tellyson.

While their captain and paramedics dealt with those fronts, 51's engine crew stood with Ms. Franklin and waited for their assignments. The teacher was pacing in a tight circle but all-in-all she was keeping it together.

"Karen, stop," Chet touched her arm to halt the motion. "You're making me dizzy. Tell us what you know so we can help."

The distracted woman ran a hand through her already abused hair. "I don't know what happened. He was there," she pointed to an area of blacktop that ran up to the side of the brick building, "playing dodge ball during recess. It started to rain again, so I made them all come back inside. It wasn't until the class settled down after getting their wet things hung up that I missed him. He isn't anywhere, we've checked _everywhere. _What if someone took him? We called his mom, and he didn't go home, he's not playing at the neighbors..." a single sob escaped before she took a ragged breath and then another.

Marco's arms itched to reach out to her, but instead he turned to see what was holding back the fireman beside him. Mike was giving Chet an exaggerated "what-are-you-waiting-for-_help_-her" look, but it took a shove to the shoulder to jump-start him.

"Come on, Karen. You know kids - he's probably just ditching class and once we find him, you can make him write he's sorry about a bazillion times in chalk."

Both Mike and Marco thought that the woman was in need of a hug; both wondered why it was taking Chet so long to offer it. Finally, their uncharacteristically _hesitant? _crew mate reached to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. A speculative look was exchanged before their captain signaled them to join him.

They were each sent off in different directions to re-search the interior of the building: locker rooms - both boys' and girls', behind the bleachers, the offices, bathrooms, closets and all the classrooms. The weather had turned, and they moved outside into the sheeting rain as dusk began to fall.

Squad 51 was called out on a possible cardiac, just as a local news team arrived. The searchers ceded the area under the school's overhanging roof to the reporters to set up for taping, giving them a wide berth as they waited further orders.

"This is Roger Steins, reporting live for KNBC." The reporter was facing the school; the cameraman framed him against the background of the now dark playground. "Tonight, LA County sheriffs and firefighters, along with area school officials are searching for a lost child. Parker Tellyson, a fourth grader at Bonita Street Elementary School went missing at about 1:30 this afternoon. Parker is nine years old, four feet, six inches tall and weighs sixty-five pounds. He has brown hair and brown eyes." The cameraman moved to follow as the reported turned slightly and continued. "He was wearing jeans and a blue and green striped polo shirt. Anyone with any information on this missing boy should call the LA County Sheriff Department." The camera panned at a measured pace across the staging area of the emergency vehicles, past milling searchers to rest on the figure of a distraught mother, huddled in a thin raincoat.

"Come on, men, we're back in service," Captain Stanley called as he approached his engine crew. They had moved from where he had last seen them standing under the partial shelter offered by a brick wall to where they currently stood exposed to wind and rain. He knew instantly what they were up to and parted the wall of turnout coats to address Mrs. Tellyson. Karen Franklin stood close with a supporting arm across the weeping woman's back.

"Ma'am, we'll be with the engine. We can patrol the neighborhood streets and still respond as needed if we get called out on a run. There are several teams on foot going door-to-door. We'll keep looking, Mrs. Tellyson, I promise. Why don't you and Ms. Franklin wait inside? You'll be more comfortable, and that way we'll know where to reach you."

Karen gently turned her charge toward the school's glass doors and employed the subtle herding maneuvers Chet had seen her use on students. His captain stepped back out into the rain and each of his men moved to follow.

* * *

Half an hour later, they received a call to return to the school from where they were trolling the streets to the south. On the way back, they learned via a radio conversation with Lieutenant Bragg that Parker had been found locked in the boiler room. The squad pulled up just as Marco and Mike were placing chocks behind the engine's wheels.

A relieved principal met the engine crew with the details while Roy and John gave the boy a quick exam.

It had been Mr. Anderson, the same overall-wearing janitor they had met two days ago that discovered him. The kid might have been locked in, but he had made himself at home, helping himself to what was left of Mr. Anderson's lunch, and settling in for the duration. He'd been found with his feet up, watching the small television set Mr. Anderson kept for use during his lunch breaks.

"I'll bet I can guess the reason Parker didn't bother to call for help," John announced as he stowed the boxes in a side compartment of the squad.

Roy turned from where he'd been keeping an eye on Parker and his mom. She hadn't let go of the boy since the moment they'd been reunited. It had been easy enough to get a set of vitals while she held her son's hand. He wondered how long it would be before she could force herself to let it go. When the father in him started to wonder how he would react in her place, he wrestled his thoughts back to the safer, though not necessarily saner, musings of his partner.

"...and I'd be willing to risk some serious cash on my theory that he was hoping to get those kids that locked him up into _really _big trouble."

Roy smiled at the thought of what John might consider "serious cash" just as a dispatcher's voice came over the HT asking if they were available. Roy waved to catch Cap's eye and signaled that he and John were back in service.

Cap waved as his paramedics left the parking lot under strobing lights with siren wailing. He turned for a head count and noted Ms. Franklin and Chet had moved off to the side for a quiet conversation. _Well_, he amended, _maybe "not-so-quiet" and more of a "one-sided venting session"._ Parker's mother might be overcome with relief that she had her son back in her arms, but it seemed his fourth grade teacher was struggling with the decision of whether or not to let the nine-year-old prodigal live to be ten. He wouldn't be surprised if she had to make that same choice on a daily basis.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he told two-thirds of his engine crew as he joined them by the rig. He wasn't the only one who witnessed a scribbled exchange of slips of paper.

* * *

3

Mike walked into the station his usual half-an-hour early. He just didn't understand why John had never caught onto the technique.

You could get a lot accomplished over a leisurely cup of coffee: catch up with the guys on C-shift, get a handle on important change of shift events - specifically, the phantom managing his trap lines.

Some days, Chet spent as much time disabling traps to use another day as he did in setting them in the first place. He juggled them in response to how a targeted crew mate's day was going. He brought pranking up to the level of honed finesse that a less involved observer would miss. Mike thought all of A-shift was aware of it on some level. It was an education in the evolution of technique and what Chet obviously considered an art form.

Chet would wander in and set at least one, some times as many as three or four. Sometimes, he would refrain from setting up anything for several shifts in a row. Mike assumed this was an effort to allow his marks to settle back into complacency.

The engineer placed the stapler full of party poppers on Cap's desk. Chet made it easy to fly under the radar. Mike agreed whole-heartedly that there was an element of artistry to it. He was nowhere near the office when the rest of A-shift trickled in.

Marco arrived in plenty of time to unwrap his duct-tape-encased locker and make it to roll call with minutes to spare.

* * *

Chet entered the empty kitchen for a cup of coffee before beginning his assigned chores. He turned to inspect the open cigar box someone had left on the table. A familiar rubber mouse was laid out in state, nestled on a bed of tissue, a bouquet of tiny silk flowers held in its claws. (Upon closer inspection, Chet discovered the judicious application of super glue apparently strengthened its little mousie grip.) He took a sip from his steaming mug as he considered the little corpse. He reached to rotate the box to a better angle to read a note taped to the inside of its hinged lid.

Ode to Sir Mouse

Gone but not forgotten, survived by Herbert Mouse

_He never knew what struck him; what tool of death Chet flung._

_It came from out of nowhere; he ended life too young._

_Chet's throwing arm was girly; his aim was weak and frail._

_Sir Mouse died not from knife or fright, but from Chet's shrieking wail._

Chet lifted his mug again. After a healthy swallow, he set it on the counter. He had hose to hang.

* * *

Two hours later, John leaned back, hands stacked behind his head, basking in not being the current target of the phantom. Marco had just found his missing dress uniform hat in the freezer, frozen in a solid block of ice.

* * *

The squad was called out several times, and the engine had a rubbish fire. It was early afternoon before both rigs were dispatched to the same scene. Captain Stanley had the HT to his ear 30 seconds after they entered the main entrance. "LA County, this is Engine 51, we're going to need another company and another squad at our location, over."

"Ten-Four, Engine 51, dispatching Truck 96 and Squad 45 to your location at 20700 Avalon Boulevard, Southbay Pavilion Mall," Sam Lanier's muffled voice came over the HT which had already been shoved into a turnout pocket. Hank's men followed him into the chaos at the base of the escalators.

He counted eleven people of varying ages sitting or lying down with a growing crowd of more than two dozen milling amongst them. Roy and John were already moving from person to person, beginning triage. Hank's gaze flew from the scene at the base of the stairs to the one at the top and rested on the escalator steps themselves.

"Unbelievable," he muttered. People actually seemed to still be using the stalled steps as a viable path between the ground floor and second level of the mall. "Marco, second level, take the elevator. See what you can do about crowd control from up there. Chet, give Roy and John a hand. Mike you get the stairs. Get those fools off and..." Hank's eyes narrowed as the moving people parted. His engineer was taking the steps two at a time before Hank could send him.

Mike reached the teenager just as the escalator made a shudder and a feint at moving. "Cap!?" Mike shouted, knowing without looking back that a hand was already reaching to flip the emergency off switch.

He moved to take the place of the two men trying to free the girl's hair from where it was caught in the handrail. The steps below them gave another threat. "Up or down, guys - you choose, but you need to get off this thing _now. _And do me a favor, take these other folk with you."

Wide, frightened eyes met his. "Hi there, I'm Mike. Try to relax a bit for me. I've got you." And he did, if only he could get his hip under her thighs and...grunt...brace her...like... that. "So, just hanging out at the mall?" He got the hoped for response when the teen let out a giggle. Mike moved slightly to straighten her against the clear balustrade, just under the rail. He lifted his right hand a bit to keep her head in alignment and take some of the tension off her hair. "Better?" he asked.

"A little. Wh-what happened?"

"It's hard to say. 'Looks like a bunch of people fell down the steps, but your hair kept you from joining them. Did the escalator stop suddenly?"

"Yeah, everyone was falling. I think I got pushed. My hair was all over the place, and then..." she finished her tale with a cryptic eye roll towards the back of her pinned head.

"Hey Mike, need a hand? How's the shoulder holding up?"

"It's fine, Chet. This is just an awkward angle."

"Just checking. Cap sent a message. He wants you to know that if your shoulder is bugging you, you'd better fess up now because if he finds out after-the-fact that you've re-injured it, a sore shoulder will be the least of your worries. You move up a bit, I'll brace her from down here."

Mike made an effort to smooth the features of his face.

"You formulate any kind of a plan on how to free Rapunzel's locks, or are we gonna go the route of the newest, _cutting_ edge fashion?"

Chet's effort at subtlety was a wasted one. It took her half a heartbeat to register what this new fireman was suggesting before she began to protest, _loudly_. "Not my hair, not my hair, you can't cut my hair, you can't."

When she began to hyperventilate, Mike glared at Chet. "_Smooth move, dip-shit," _Mike mouthed over her head.

"Wow," she paused in wonder. "My fingers and toes are tingling."

"That's because you need to take slower, deeper breaths." _Lord, he hoped that was the reason, and not some stealthy nerve injury. _"Here, breathe with me," After twisting a bit to make eye contact, he took an exaggerated, shoulder-lifting breath. "With me now..."

"But my hair!"

"How 'bout you just concentrate on breathing for now. Chet was right about the shorter hair styles that are coming in style. Some of them are really cute. You'd better give us your name, or else he'll keep calling you 'Rapunzel.'"

"It's Dana. Please don't cut my hair!"

"Take a deep breath, Dana," Mike ordered before turning his head in Chet's direction. "Do you know what the damage is down there?"

"They're still sorting through the carnage, but Roy says one broken wrist, a collarbone, and several nasty abrasions. The worst is an elderly gal with a broken hip. Gage is going in with her and 45's paramedics are helping sort the rest. 'Looks like they're transporting five total so far." Chet answered in a strained voice as he changed his grip to adjust for Dana's sliding weight.

"Told you," Mike grunted, as he too shifted his bracing stance. "Not as easy as it looks, is it?" He scanned the scene above and below, his eyes met another searching gaze. He remembered to paste what he hoped would pass as a reassuring, _pain-free, _look on his face.

Chet looked over his shoulder as a hand came to rest on his back. "Pat Driscoll, out of 96, how can I help?"

"Pat, could you call to see if one of the paramedics could come on up? I'm thinking they may want to put a C-collar on her before we move her much more. Have them bring..." Mike paused to make a scissors motion with the fingers of his hand behind her neck, "...anything they think they'll need."

Pat nodded and moved away, after Chet and Mike shifted yet again to keep supporting her. "How you doing?"

"Just fine, as long as no one tries to cut my hair. You won't let them, will you Mike?"

Mike blew out his cheeks in indecision and decided to err on the side of honesty.

"We'll do what we can, but I think you know that there's a real possibility that we might have to cut some of your hair to get you free. I can't seem to get it loose, but we'll have one of the paramedics take a look and see what he thinks." Mike paused when Dana seemed to be revving up for a bit more hyperventilation.

"How much?! How much do you think they'll have to take off?!"

"As little as possible, I promise." Mike eyed the length of hair that remained untangled and chose to keep any estimates on the vague side. "Look, I know this is hard, but hair grows. And you might even like it and decide to keep it shorter. But the bottom line is, we have to get you free and to do that, we might have to cut your hair." Mike moved yet again to ease the strain on his muscles, careful to keep his expression in check, but he almost grinned. He had injured his left shoulder weeks earlier; it was his right that was beginning to object to its current abuse.

Chet's eyes narrowed in assessment. "Say, Pat, we could use a hand here. You know, Dana, Dorothy Hamill wears her hair short in that wedgie-cut thing-y. I see plenty of teenagers wearing their hair short these days." Pat stepped in to share the lion's portion of the weight with Chet.

"Hey, guys, what've we got?" Roy asked as he climbed the last steps to their position. He leaned to get a look and reached to swiftly feel the vertebrae along the back of her neck. "It seems okay, but that was a good call, Mike," he said after he removed the C-collar from where he'd been gripping it in his teeth during his assessment. "Here, move your hand just a bit, there - got it." He moved to crouch at eye level in front of the girl and the three firemen who held her pinned in place.

"Hi, my name's Roy." He reached up under her head and followed the strands to where they disappeared under the black rubber of the handrail. "Well, I'm sorry, sweetie, but I think the only way we're going to get you free is to cut some of your hair."

Tears streamed down her face and dripped onto Mike's boot.

"She'll be okay, won't you, Dana?" Mike tried faking his most optimistic attitude. He was a little surprised when she took a wavering breath and said in a small hitched voice, "O-okay. It'll grow back."

"Atta girl." Roy pulled a pair of trauma shears out of a pocket.

Other than a bad haircut, Roy thought she was going to be alright. But it seemed Dana was suffering from a serious crush and wouldn't release Mike's hand. At the foot of the escalator, the engineer mounted a valiant effort but he was having little luck managing a self extrication.

Cap finally took pity and firmly pulled Mike's hand out of her grasp. "Miss, I need to borrow my engineer for a moment." Hank took her hand and tucked it by her side in the stokes basket. "One of the paramedics here will be riding in the back of the ambulance with you, and your parents are going to meet you at the hospital." Cap sent Mike off with a backward gesture of his head much to the pouting dismay of the young lady. Mike didn't need more encouragement than that to make good his escape.

* * *

At dinner that night, Cap dumped half of a cup of ketchup on his tater tots from a cap-loosened bottle. Without comment, he reached over the table to exchange plates with a chagrined phantom.

* * *

Mike dropped a slip of paper on top of the magazine Marco was reading while the rest of the crew watched _The Bob Newhart Show_. "Here, this is a better one; it beats 'no aortic moan' anyway."

Marco smiled as he read _Am Into Corona_. "This deserves compensation. Are you free tomorrow night? There's a dart tournament going on at The Crest over in Torrance. A couple of the guys from 36 are doing pretty well. I'll buy you a beer and we can cheer on our compadres."

"Lights out in fifteen" Cap announced, setting aside the book he'd been reading. "I guess you'll just have to content yourself with tamer stuff until you can live up to your new nickname tomorrow night, Corona," he teased as he stood to start his nighttime ritual of putting the station to bed.

* * *

4

The morning showed a lot of promise after following a rare night of no runs. All six members of the crew, in various stages of undress, were gathered in the locker room changing, while B-shift gathered out in the bay for roll call. Cap finished dressing first and with a casual salute, headed out the door.

"So, Chet, got any interesting plans for our four days off?" Marco innocently asked, but not without shooting the other guys a significant look that gave them a heads up that the answer might be worth hearing.

"That Parker needs to learn some comic timing as well as when to put the brakes on." Chet tried a redirection, a technique all the guys recognized the moment he employed it. "I'm going to meet him after school and give him some tips."

"Yeah, Chet, it wouldn't have anything to do with trying to impress his pretty fourth grade teacher, now, would it?" A relentless Marco brought the conversation back to where he intended it to head.

John, deciding to join Marco's steering committee, leaned out of his locker with a "Don't tell me you're letting a pretty face talk you into adopting that juvenile delinquent?"

Mike and Roy leaned against the wall to enjoy the show.

"Hey don't go labeling me a softy. The kid is giving heckling and pranking a bad rep. He already has a rap sheet of misdemeanors longer than my arm. And we're not just talking swapping name tags when there's a substitute. He put blue food dye on the hand rails and Karen, ah, Ms. Franklin said several of the students ended up looking like smurfs.

"I figure I'm doing humanity and both you and Roy a favor. Someone is gonna try and murder Parker, and I don't want you two to have to respond to the grizzly scene." Chet's hand traced a path across an imaginary screen. '"Classmates force irritating tyke to swallow his own rubber vomit, paramedics in counseling...news at eleven.'"

John turned from closing his locker, his own hand tracing an arching path. "Tonight's profile: Chester B. - the man who will do anything for a date."

"And what if Karen Franklin did ask me to speak to him? Somebody's got to make the kid see that most of what he's been doing is no joke."

John shook his head in mock amazement. "Chet as a coach on sensitivity and taste, not to mention restraint - now that is something I never thought I'd see."

Marco thought the conversation was drifting from the more interesting details of Chet's love life. "So, Chet, when's your first date?"

Chet ignored the question. "Still, the kid's got the makings of a first class comedian. He spent a couple of weeks teaching the first graders to insert 'Walt Disney' as a president of the United States right between John Tyler and James K. Polk. Somehow the teacher didn't catch it before the school's Washington's Birthday assembly. Capitalizing on Gage's puzzled look, he added, "They were the tenth and eleventh..."

"Yeah, like _you_ knew that before you were dating an elementary school teacher."

"Hey, don't knock the value of private lessons, Gage."

Roy bent to pick up his duffel bag. "Chet, only you would consider "class clown" as a legitimate and worthy answer to the question 'what do you want to be when you grow up?'"

Chet picked up his own bag and joined the small pack moving toward the door.

Once they reached the parking lot and started to split off in different directions, Chet cleared his throat and spoke up while he had the chance. "Speaking of careers, I'm dropping by Karen's class the Friday after next, for career day. 'How about one of you joining me to represent the fine profession of paramedic-ing?"

"Not me, Chet." John called as he climbed into the Rover. "I get enough of grade schoolers every time it's my turn to do a station tour. And I've seen enough of _Bonita_ these past few weeks to last the rest of the year."

"How about you, Roy? You're good with kids. I'll even throw in lunch."

Roy opened the passenger door to his Porsche and tossed his bag on the seat. "As long as it isn't in the school cafeteria, you're on."

Marco turned to his friend as they made their way to their respective cars. "So, when is your next hot date with Ms. Karen Franklin?"

* * *

5

Parker met him at the door to Karen's classroom the following Tuesday after school let out. Chet raised a disbelieving eyebrow when the kid held out his hand. The sensation of his palm buzzing was only mildly annoying, and the only reaction Chet had to really rein in was the temptation to laugh in the short amateur's face. He followed Parker into the room, where the kid slumped into a student's desk, and Chet contented himself with leaning a hip against a low bookcase.

Karen turned with a smile that Chet mentally added to the plus side of this whole scenario. "Thanks for coming, Mr. Kelly. We both appreciate it, don't we, Parker?" Chet wasn't sure how she did it, but she managed to _not_ make that sentence sound as irritating as it should have been.

Even Parker responded to the gentle suggestion, albeit with a not-so-sweet response of "Sure" chased with a withering glare behind her back.

Chet let the silence between them lay.

"I've got to go run some copies...you two make nice, I'll be right back." Karen paused to lay a hand on his arm and gave him an understanding smile before she left. Chet let that tip the scales heavily in favor of pushing ahead.

"So, Ms Franklin tells me you like practical jokes."

"Like you'd even be interested in me if she hadn't asked. This is just detention disguised as a session with a really lame Big-Brother wanna-be."

"You might be right there, kid. She must see something in you worth redeeming. Personally, I don't see the draw."

Chet watched in silence as the kid pulled out the remnants of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich from his desk and strolled across to another desk two rows over. He held his tongue as Parker painstakingly transferred the filling to the under-edges of the lift-up desk top, being very meticulous about spreading an even layer. He didn't comment as the young criminal turned towards him in an obvious dare and shoved what remained of his makeshift trowel into his mouth.

"But I did promise her I'd talk to you, so here goes."

* * *

By the time Ms. Franklin returned, Parker had resumed his resentful slouch, arms across his chest. She waited in the doorway and listened as Chet held a one-sided conversation.

"The point is to be able to take pride in a prank well played. In the end, it's supposed to be fun, for _everyone_ involved. Look kid, it's never funny if someone gets hurt - even if it's only their feelings - even if it was an accident."

"Hey, you two, having a nice talk? Parker, I just saw your mom pull up. You can go now. See you tomorrow morning."

Karen moved back towards her desk after following the nine-year-old to the door. Chet caught the vaguely sweet-solvent-y scent of the stack of dittos she still held as she turned away from him to begin to sort the pages by arranging them across the front row of students' desks. Ducking her head, she wasn't quite quick enough to hide her worry and disappointment. "Thank you for trying. He isn't really the irredeemable delinquent he made sure you met just now. I was just hoping you could get through to him..." Karen jumped, startled by the sound of two erasers being clapped together behind her back. Schooling her face, she looked over her shoulder at an unrepentant Chet.

"You need all this erased, Teacher? Or do you want me to leave the slave roster?"

Karen gave an exaggerated sigh and looked pointedly at the fine white cloud settling on the linoleum floor at the feet of the over-grown kid before her. "You're supposed to do that _outside_, Chester B," she scolded in mock-sternness. "Leave the spelling list too, please." She turned back to her task with a smile on her face, which translated into a satisfied grin on Chet's.

* * *

6

The next afternoon, Chet parked his sister's Chevy Impala, borrowed for his first date with Karen, in a visitor's space at the elementary school. He adjusted the mirror to check his reflection and make sure nothing was caught in his front teeth. He reached over and poofed the flowers he had picked up. Taking a bracing breath, he stepped onto the curb.

His eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Parker loitering on the front steps of the school, just waiting to pounce. Granted, it was just after the final bell had rung; the kiddlet-hordes were still dispersing. The little hooligan might have the legit excuse of waiting for another ride, but Chet's money was on the convenient heckling opportunities as a primary motive behind the kid's choice of his current position.

_He'd hit that nail right on the head._

"Chet and Karen sittin' in a tree, K-I-S..."

"First off, that's Ms. Franklin to you, you little smart ass," Chet said in an even tone. "And secondly, you keep her off your 'to-prank-list', hear me? She's about the best friend you've got at this school - heck, from what I can tell she might be the _only _friend you've got. You ought to take note and be grateful. Either way, you need to treat her with the respect she deserves. You got that?"

The boy backed down the steps with a nonchalant air. "Yeah, I got it. You kids have fun now. Don't stay out too late. _Ms. Franklin_ has class in the morning."

Chet shook his head in warning at the retreating boy. The kid was relentless. _It could be worse. He could belong to Karen. _That one thought was enough to make him close his eyes in what was, perhaps, an irreverent prayer of gratitude. It was bad enough that she was his teacher. _I should send his mom a sympathy card for having drawn the short straw. _He let the thought go as he levered one of the school's glass doors open.

* * *

7

"How did your little chat with Parker go the other day, Chet?" Marco called from where he sat in the day room.

"Man, that kid is annoying. No wonder lions eat their young," Chet answered as he stepped further into the kitchen. "The little shit is out of control. Do you know he tried to get some second graders to drink a cup of his pee last week?" Chet pulled his head out of the refrigerator, not having found anything tempting inside.

Mike smiled in sympathy as he listened to Chet vent. "Discover any anagrams, lately?" he asked, thinking Chet needed to concentrate on something that wouldn't raise his blood pressure.

"Ooooh, yeah." Chet got a proverbial wicked gleam in his eye. "John Roderick Gage" transforms magically into 'a doggone rich jerk.' How cool is that?"

John, highly affronted at Chet's idea of magic stood up from the table where he and Roy had slips of paper laid out, chronicling their busy morning. Roy stayed seated as he entered another run into the log book. John faced Chet with a hand spread on his chest. "Me? I'm not rich. And I'm not a jerk." He turned to Mike. "Has anyone ever called me a jerk?"

"No, but other than that, Chet, it's not a bad anagram. Longer subjects are a lot harder to get to come out perfectly." Mike chose his words carefully, planning to remain perched as comfortably on the fence as possible.

"He probably had help." John said, on the outside chance that it might be true. "You take some more private lessons from a certain fourth grade teacher, Chet?"

"A gentleman never tells."

"Which is why I felt comfortable asking _you_."

Chet turned away from John. "If you liked that one, Mike, you're gonna love this next one. 'Michael Stoker' anagrams to 'storm-like ache'."

Roy gave a snort without looking up from the log book. "That sounds like the title of one of the cheesy romance novels my mother-in-law reads all the time."

"I think it sounds like something that a swooning teenager would go all gaga over. Mike, you know the one. Remember - from that escalator escapade last weekend, the one you had to hide from - in the engine cab, so that they could load her in the ambulance without a scene. Don't tell me you've already forgotten? Stoker! I never would have pegged you as a love 'em and..." Chet's voice trailed off as Mike demonstrated that he was in fact a "leave 'em" type of guy.

A minute later they heard the bay doors open and then the sound of the engine being backed out to stop on the cement apron behind the station. **  
**

Roy closed the log book and set it aside. "Cap, Johnny and I should be taking off for that protocol review at Rampart."

Hank nodded toward his paramedics as they headed out the door to the apparatus floor.

"On that note, Marco, Chet, time to join Mike in cleaning up the rig after that last run."

Mike was working on the driver's side and saluted Roy and John with a soapy cleaning rag as they climbed into the squad. He returned to working on the lower section behind the front wheel. They had driven through a side lot to get to a hydrant blocked by illegally parked vehicles. The continuing rains had saturated the ground, so it had been a messy endeavor to access and hook up to the hydrant and put out the smoldering fire in one of the-soon-to-be-ticketed vehicles.

Chet grabbed a rag to start on the passenger's side while Marco stretched the garden hose attached to the back of the station around to the rear.

"Geeze, Mikey, did you have to drive straight through every mud puddle?"

"That entire lot _was _a mud puddle. I suppose I could have driven over a few of those jerks' cars, but that might've put a scratch in her paint. Plus, Cap would have had to fill out a pile of paperwork, and well, washing off mud is easier to face. And don't call me Mikey."

The chatter died for a moment as the three men settled into a companionable silence.

Mike turned as an arm reached past him to engage a control on the pump panel at his right elbow. His eyes widened in understanding...just before he heard the sound of water rushing out of the hookups on the other side of the engine...followed by the outraged shout of dismay from Chet which settled into an angry, indignant sputter.

Cap paused long enough to give his astonished engineer a challenging look, a "that's how it's done, Stoker" kind of look. Then with a triumphant smile, he ducked away and crossed the apparatus floor to the office.

Mike stood frozen for a moment, considering his captain and wondering where exactly he had slipped up with the booby-trapped stapler. He turned to face Chet's irateness as the lineman rounded the front of the rig. Marco followed on his heels and gave Mike a congratulatory "thumbs up" behind Chet's back. Mike stood, letting the vocal tirade wash over him and shook his head as a dripping Chet stomped off to change uniforms. He considered once again the door that Cap had disappeared through. _Yep, it was a fine art_.

* * *

Cap walked into the kitchen as the guys were clearing lunch. "Change of plans boys. The hydrants on East Renton will have to wait. We're going on a field trip to Bonita. Chief McConikee just called and he has had enough of that student body's shenanigans. C-shift had another alarm there yesterday; this time it was a smoke bomb. It tied up three companies, a chief and a squad. While all fingers point to Parker Tellyson as the most likely suspect, there is no concrete proof. The chief wants me to have another chat with the principal while the five of you each take one of the upper classes and have a heart to heart with the students. You'll be splitting up six classes: two fourth, two fifth and two sixth. Combine the two fifth grade classes - they just happen to have a few less kids. Figure out among yourselves who gets which class. Let's go, gentlemen. You can write your speeches on the way."

They each bulled their way through a half hour of reciting directions on when and how to appropriately avail oneself of the services of the fire department. After fielding a wide range of questions, they followed the classes out to recess, ready for one of their own.

Roy and John headed for the squad, Mike for the engine.

"Madre Mia, what a macabre bunch of twelve-year-olds!" Marco exclaimed once they were out of ear-shot. "You wouldn't believe the conversation I just had about whether I've ever seen a person get burned alive. I think I might be traumatized for life. I could collect state industrial."

"There, there, Marco," Cap soothed with a sweet grin. "I'm sure you handled the little tykes' questions with grace and aplomb. And do you have any idea how much time I have to invest every time one of you gets injured on the job? Sorry, but this is definitely one of those situations where the phrase 'no blood, no foul' applies. Show me the marks before you claim those sweet little innocents dealt you an injury."

Marco huffed a humorless laugh before moving to join Mike. Hank's Spanish was unequal to translating the mutterings that drifted back from that direction, but he smiled at being able to catch the gist. He turned to his other lineman who was practically bouncing in place to get his captain's attention.

"Is it okay if I go and have a chat with Parker?"

Hank stopped himself from asking if Chet needed a hall pass, thinking they'd all been spending way too much time hanging out at a certain elementary school. He sent Chet on his way; someone had to get through to the kid. He walked over to a group of teachers standing with Dale Pomeroy.

Captain Stanley looked up from his conversation and took inventory. The squad had left the school's parking lot five minutes ago on another run. He scanned for the positions of his three men still at the school. Mike and Marco were holding up the front, left bumper of the engine and Chet had taken a detour and was in conference with a certain fourth grade teacher. The captain rolled his eyes before turning back to shake Dale's hand. He'd be inviting the man over for dinner if they saw much more of each other. It wasn't that he didn't like the guy, he just considered it ironic that the foundation of their relationship was based on trying to figure out how _not_ to have to keep getting together over the one thing they had in common.

He joined Mike and Marco at their post while Chet moved off with that 'one thing' firmly grasped by the back of his neck for a brief conference.

* * *

8

The next afternoon, Chet marked his score after he picked up the spare. He decided not to call it when Parker crossed the foul line as he sent his ball down the lane. He was not going to mention the shiner the kid sported over his left eye either. He'd wait and ask Karen about it when he picked her up for dinner.

Since it was a Friday afternoon, the bowling alley was getting fairly crowded The lane to their right was still empty, which was a good thing since the kid had already had two of his balls jump over the dividing rail.

Parker pulled a crumpled brown paper sack from his back pack. Taking one, he offered Chet the second Oreo. Nodding his thanks, Chet popped the cookie into his mouth as he swung his arm back. His forward swing went wide and he threw his first gutter ball in months after he bit down on a mouth full of toothpaste.

"Nice, kid," he said after he spit the foamy black crumbs into his palm. He would have loved to throw a strike with his second ball, but he left one pin standing.

"As I was saying, there is a fine balance you are trying for. You want to pace yourself so that no one comes to expect it, and you want to keep a low enough profile that the 'powers that be' pretty much leave you to operate in peace. And again, the point is for everybody to have fun - even if it takes awhile for your mark to appreciate the genius of a finely executed prank."

"Watch your toes; you keep stepping over the foul line." Chet grimaced as he took a drink of pop. There was nothing like cola to chase the minty fresh taste of toothpaste framed by chocolate.

"Yeah, like I'm sure when you have a fast one pulled over on you, you turn around and congratulate the guy who just zinged you."

"I only _wish_ I could pull off a response that smooth. No, you're right. It does usually take a bit of time and distance for the victim of a truly great gag to gain the proper perspective." Chet threw a split and then missed the spare.

"Okay. For example, the guys at the station really had me going once by all working together to convince me I was losing my eyesight. They set up flickering lights, pretended to see stuff that wasn't there and made sure they were able to call out the smallest numbers on an eye chart because they had cheat sheets. For a bunch of rank amateurs, they did a decent job of executing a pretty complex prank. Even our captain was in on it. I couldn't admit it at the time, but that was a work of pure evil genius."

"I heard one of the other firemen call you Chester B. What's the 'B' stand for?"

"B."

Parker split, then threw another gutter ball.

"My middle name starts with an "N", wanna know what it is?"

"Not particularly."

Chet marked his last frame, a strike. "147 to 62. I win. Ms. Franklin tells me Bonita's got a home basketball game Sunday afternoon. You want to catch it with me?" He bent to zip his bowling ball into its bag. "Make sure you tuck the laces in before you hand the gal your shoes. I think this must be her first day on the job. She looked flustered enough without having to deal with untying knots."

* * *

9

Roy nonchalantly checked the lid of the salt shaker before up-ending it over his bowl of soup.

"Chet," John began, while keeping an eye on his shift mates' reactions as they started to eat. No one was making a gasping dash to the sink to rinse their mouth out yet. John took his own cautionary taste. It _seemed _okay. "Dwyer mentioned at shift change that they had a run to Bonita yesterday morning to patch Parker Tellyson up after a fist fight. Got any details?"

"Yeah, here's the rest of the story…" Chet reached for the salt shaker, pretended to use it and then deftly re-loosened it one-handed before he replaced it on the table. Mike, having followed the shaker's path with interest, thought it was a bit like keeping track of the pea in a shell game. Cap thought it was time to go on a salt-free diet. Having used his "pause for dramatic effect" to its full potential, Chet continued."Parker teased an overweight kid when he couldn't finish running laps in PE. The kid ended up in tears and his friends lit into Parker. Karen says that on top of getting the snot beat out of himself, he came away with an even bigger chip on his shoulder."

"Last week some of the older kids gave him a swirly. You remember those? Where they hold you upside down with your head in a toilet and flush it."

"Personal experience there, pal? Is this some kind of traditional payback for pranks-played that we should all know about?"

"Ah, no, Cap, I've never had actual up close and personal experience of that nature with a toilet bowl. I was fast in fourth grade. Plus, even back then, I had an innate sense of comedy that this kid can't seem to grasp, that and a finely honed sense of self-preservation. I'm just gifted, I guess."

"Yeah, Chet, you're a regular idiot savant when it comes to comic genius," John muttered in an aside pitched for all to hear.

Chet sent the requisite glare in Gage's direction, but he was warming to his subject and let the paramedic's comment go unchallenged, merely filing it in the mental folder labeled "payback due," before continuing.

"Parker is just _that_ kid in school. You know - the one that gets picked on by the class bullies. It's partly because he's an easy target: the skinny, geeky kid who doesn't fit into any of the usual crowds. His dad died in an auto accident three years ago, and he and his mom have moved a few times since then.

"Don't get me wrong. The kid has some real issues. Sometimes he deserves to get sand kicked in his face. And if he doesn't stop thinking of new ways to set off a fire alarm, I'll be standing in line to put him head first into a garbage can. But seriously, guys, the kid needs to grab a clue before he ends up drowning in a toilet."

* * *

10

Parker offered Chet some of the Cheetos he was munching on as they watched the beginning of the basketball game from half way up the nearly empty bleachers. Chet declined with a disbelieving snort.

"Suit yourself," the kid finished them off as the other team's post guard got the tip-off, sending it into a guard's hands who then neatly turned and put two points on the board from the top of the key.

Chet turned to Parker and made his own opening salvo. "Parker, pulling a fire alarm or setting a stink bomb are not just harmless pranks."

"You just think that cuz you'd rather hang out and be lazy and watch TV all day at the fire station."

"No, I think _that_, because every once in a while, we _lazy_ firemen get called out on a bogus run and someone who really needs us has to wait while we get things sorted out..." Chet made himself pause for the few moments it took to refrain from overreacting to the insult. "...or some punk pulls a chair out from under another kid who really gets hurt, or someone else is hurt being shoved in a locker, or a garbage can or having his head flushed down a toilet."

He paused again, realizing he was really on a roll with this mini rant. The point guard of other team made a full court drive to the basket.

He pressed on. "What part of this don't you get? It's not funny when property gets destroyed or someone gets hurt, even if it's just their feelings. It's no excuse to claim you didn't mean it after the fact."

Parker, true to form, sat silent staring straight ahead as Bonita passed the ball in from a side line.

"Man, this is important. This is _key_. You make fun of the wrong thing, like who someone is _in here_," Chet tapped his own chest, "...or something they can't change, something maybe they would change if they could... If you make someone feel little - even if it's because you just didn't take the time to consider what your moment of fun might cost someone else...man, that makes _you_ small...that makes you one of the bad guys."

Chet made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat and got up to leave when he caught sight of Parker's mom entering the gym. "But who am I to be trying to tell you what to do? I'm just a lazy fireman who's got nothing better to do than hang out with the mean kid who doesn't care who or what he hurts as long as he gets a laugh."

Chet halted his bounding, step-skipping descent of the bleachers long enough to give Parker's mom a polite greeting. He left the gym without turning back toward the stoic statue of a nine-year-old posed above him.

* * *

11

It was over a week later that Roy called from where he stood by the kitchen door.

"Chet, phone's for you." Chet raised his eyebrows in question as he took the handset from Roy.

"_Karen,_" Roy mouthed. Chet might have appreciated the effort at discretion, if Roy hadn't politely stepped aside all of two paces, to lean a shoulder against the refrigerator.

Chet sent him a look that Roy was apparently immune to, because he stayed glued to the spot he had staked out. Chet turned a shoulder to the intrusion. "Hi, babe, what's up?"

Mike wandered in and sat at the table. Chet rotated his body so that he fully faced the wall.

"Will he be okay?" Chet didn't even turn at the sound of a chair scraping away from the table, nor when it was joined by its twin. He held a hand over his ear to further block the presence of his entourage. He dropped it and all pretense of privacy when his captain sauntered in and poured a cup of coffee before turning around to lean against the kitchen counter.

He held the phone out for all to hear Karen's faint but discernible voice.

"Parker asked me, if I asked nicely, did I think... Geesh, Chet, they are rubbing off on me. He wants to know if you would agree to see him again. Do I always sound like such a nine-year-old?"

Chet brought the phone back to his ear. "Not always, sometimes you sound even cuter. But, yeah, I guess I could talk to him again, for all the good it's done so far." He listened for a moment, then answered, "Yeah, sure," another pause, then: "Okay, see you soon...me too." He hung the phone up, and without waiting for the questions to begin, he filled in the few details his attentive audience might have missed.

"A couple of kids at the elementary staged a prank intending to frame Parker. They targeted a disabled boy who they frightened and he ended up falling out of his wheelchair. Parker was blamed at first, until the kid who fell spoke up and told them who all was involved. Karen says at first Parker was hurt that no one believed him. Now, I guess he's just righteously outraged that everyone so easily assumed that he would do such an awful thing." Chet heaved a sigh aimed at the whole situation. "I'm meeting with him tomorrow. I guess he just needs to talk." Roy clapped him lightly on the shoulder as he made his way to pour his own cup of coffee.

"Let us know how it turns out, or if there's anything we can do to help," Hank offered as Chet moved to the couch and pulled Henry's head into his lap.

* * *

12

"So what's up kid? Chet plopped down on an outside bleacher and handed Parker an Orange Crush.

The boy was fighting valiantly to hold it together so Chet leaned way back on his elbows to bask in a rare break in the March clouds. He gazed out onto the baseball diamond where a pee wee team practiced trying to catching pop-flies and grounders. _Emphasis on "trying"._

"They all just assumed it was me. They wouldn't believe me, no matter what I said. I wouldn't ever do that to anyone, especially not a kid like Garrett."

"_Why_ not a kid like Garrett'?" Chet asked nonchalantly, taking a sip of his own soda. He grinned as a curly-headed kid standing at shortstop let a grounder go right between his legs.

Parker looked sideways at Chet, seeming to try to discern the real question being asked. With a resigned sigh, he answered, "Because Garrett's the kind of kid that will fall for anything, and then never understand why people are laughing. Because, 'it's only funny if there's a possibility that the person getting laughed at can eventually get the joke and laugh too.' A guy told me something like that the other day, and I laughed at him. I shouldn't have, 'cause he was right."

"It does my heart good to know you were listening. So listen up again, it's never funny when someone gets hurt. It's a shame when it happens on accident. But man, if it is ever done on purpose? Kid, that's when someone should really be ashamed."

Chet continued on in the face of the kid's abject misery. "At least they know you didn't do it. And Ms. Franklin says Garrett will be alright, although Mr. And Mrs. Fauni are out for blood, so it's good you are in the clear. But I'm really glad you weren't involved, because I'd hate to think you would be part of something like that." Parker was still refusing to make eye contact, but Chet figured he had the boy's attention because the kid's whole demeanor lacked its usual antagonistic stiffness.

"So, anyway, you have your next prank planned yet? Did you remember to bring a list?"

Parker visibly began to un-wilt as he dug a crumpled piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans.

Chet scanned the surprisingly long and detailed list before he smoothed it on his thigh. "Wow, Parker. If you spent this much time on your spelling words, you'd never have to re-take the practice test."

Parker caved, allowing an echo of Chet's teasing grin.

"Let's see, you want something original; something you can pull off with style. But there's also something comforting about the old standbys, ask my buddy, Johnny Gage how much he enjoys the occasional water bomb."

Parker had relaxed enough to turn and face Chet as he continued to peruse the list.

"You could teach the kindergarten class something harmless like: every time the teacher says a common word like - oh, I don't know, maybe 'rain' - they all chant in unison 'in Spain stays mainly in the plain.' He caught the spark of interest in Parker's eyes, just before he added, "Of course, it'll be awhile before they ever let you near any of the younger kids again."

Chet continued down the list. "Well placed 'out of order signs' have their possibilities. Hey, 'you ever wrap a rubber band across the spout of a drinking fountain?" The gleam was returning again as Parker considered the possibilities.

"Nix on writing on cars in the parking lot. Same goes for putting _anything_ on the paint job of any car. Shaving cream'll destroy some finishes, believe me - been there, done that, paid the fine."

Chet looked up and nodded towards one of the players out in left field - in more ways than one - twirling in circles with arms flung out wide. "Behold, the next Ted Williams." He turned his wandering attention back to the subject at hand.

"Okay, here's my pick: I like the notes posted outside of five class rooms sending them all to meet in the library at once. The ensuing chaos would be magnificent to behold. Just try to have a solid alibi. It might be hard, but I would refrain from posting it on your own classroom door."

Parker started to protest, but held his tongue when Chet raised a stalling palm. "Hold on, here's why: first, they'll expect the perpetrator to capitalize on a chance to get out of class. Second, any principal worth his salt will be watching the crowd for anyone acting suspiciously. He'll know how tempting it will be for whoever set up the prank to be present to enjoy the fruits of his labor first hand. And finally, I don't want to get Karen, I mean _Ms. Franklin_, all pissed off at me for interrupting her class. So if you try this, make sure you are in class with your clean-looking nose in some textbook _before_ the tardy bell rings, got it?"

Chet wondered if he was going to regret coaching Parker with this prank. He tried to imagine the worst case scenario, which he guessed would be Parker getting caught and earning detention. Karen would get wind of Chet's involvement. She might cluck her tongue at him, but he doubted she'd be truly mad, unless Parker chose to include her class in the re-routing exercise.

They were both keeping track of the action out on the field, so neither one missed it when two of the little guys going for the same pop-up collided because they were so intent on "keeping their eye on the ball."

Chet and his apprentice shared a disbelieving look. Chet chuckled, "Where else can you see such quality slap-stick for free? While I've got your attention, we need to talk about targets. You wanna pull a fast one on a good friend that you know can take it - great. Go for it. You decide to set the clock ahead when the teacher's out of the room; it's your funeral if you get caught. You decide to prank someone to get even, remember things have a tendency to escalate. Payback is a bi... Well let's just say you need to be prepared for the consequences." Chet turned to lean on one elbow to make sure Parker was following him. "You pick on someone littler than you, take advantage of someone just because you can - man that's just wrong. You destroy property...say with graffiti..."

Parker was lasting longer under this onslaught of advice than Chet had ever thought possible, but then the kid broke the spell with a roll of his eyes and finished Chet's sentence with, "Yeah, I know - I'll be doing time if I get caught."

"No, that isn't exactly what I was getting at. My point is, you shouldn't be breaking any laws, whether you think you could get caught or not. And anyways, it isn't always about _not_ getting caught. Sometimes you want your pigeon to know exactly who struck."

"Look, I've been pranking friends and enemies since way before you were born...heck, maybe even before your mom was in grade school herself, and I am just trying to save you some grief. Learn from my mistakes. Think before you prank."

"Man, that sounds like some lame anti-bullying poster. Who writes your lines, anyway, Mr. Rogers?"

Chet turned to face the boy more fully. "Parker, just what do you think a bully is?" His answer came in the form of an ambivalent shrug. "Unless becoming one is a specific life goal of yours, I think you need to develop a working definition." Chet relaxed back into his former reclining position. "You pick on your classmates enough, not only will you be spending a few recesses locked in a broom closet, you'll be spending the rest of them alone."

"Man, I thought firemen where supposed to be tough. You are such a... a pansy." This bald insult was delivered with a sideways glance to gauge the grownup's reaction - which, actually, seemed to be nonexistent. He joined Chet in leaning back.

Chet smiled at the kid's attempt to poke at him and chose to ignore the barb. "I lost a few friends and probably missed out on a few chances at making new ones before I wised up." His smile faded as he continued, "But the stuff I really regret, some of it I just can't take back. Some of it I am still trying to forgive myself for.

So, let's finish going over that list of yours and talk about, really _think_ about how some of these pranks will play out.

Chet scanned the list one last time. "Hey, I like this one...mind if I use it at the station?"

* * *

13

The guys were taking a break after spending the afternoon at the training center running through extraction drills using the new attachments the department had just purchased for the Jaws of Life.

_The_ _New Price is Right_ was on, and Roy was, as usual, doing better than any of the contestants. "I'm telling you, Roy. You should get on this show. You'd clean up, you know you would," Chet voiced what they all believed. Roy routinely 'won' the car whenever he watched the show.

Cap walked into the day room to reclaim his chair after getting up to take a phone call. "Well, Chet, it looks like your persistence might have paid off. I just got off the phone with the principal over at Bonita. He called to let us know that the infamous mad alarm puller, a.k.a. Parker Tellyson apologized in person and in writing for the false alarms and the smoke bomb. Come to think of it, we haven't had a response out to our favorite playground in over three weeks, knock-on-wood." Raising his coffee mug in salute Cap added, "Here's to fewer frivolous runs."

"Here's to fewer injuries at Bonita Elementary," Roy lifted his glass of water in response.

"And fewer hurt feelings," Marco chimed in.

Chet looked up from scratching Henry behind the ear, and grinned. "Here's to the next generation of pranksters. May they jest in peace."

* * *

*A/N: two rug rats in this tale = two hidden anagrams. For the purposes of this and future anagram-tales, a "rug rat" isn't necessarily a toddler. (Pssst, don't worry about hunting for Garrett's middle initial, it's not there and you won't need it.) (Just a reminder, if you solve these puzzles, please don't reveal the solutions in a review. Thanks.)

** The 17th century writer, John Dryden described anagramming as the "torture of one poor word ten thousand ways." I've seen that sentiment paraphrased by other authors as well.


	3. To Dose

Anagrams Run Through It All

(Shall Hunt a Roaming Rug Rat)

A/N: As in the other tales in this series, there are anagrams and kids. This is Roy's contribution.

Emergency! belongs to Mark VII and Universal. Beta-kudos belong to Enfleurage.

DeSoto

(To Dose)

1

Roy looked up from where he was polishing one of the squad's side mirrors. "How're you and Karen doing these days?"

Chet closed the valve of the air tank he was checking and hefted it back to its place on the engine. "She's a little miffed at me for pranking her."

Roy turned to face his friend, "Chet, you didn't."

"Well, not on purpose. Parker pulled a fast one on me. We were talking about possible pranks that last time we met. I teased him about how it was a shame they were never gonna let him near the little kids again this side of high school graduation." Chet leaned against the side of the engine as Roy moved to the squad's passenger side.

"Now he's taken one of the ideas we talked about that would've work like a charm on those kindergarteners and spun it. Yesterday, he convinced his entire fourth grade class to squeal in fright and fall out of their chairs every time Karen said any word that described a natural disaster. Think tornado, volcano, tsunami..."

Roy managed not to laugh at the image forming in his head but he couldn't keep from smiling. Chet followed him to the rear of the bay as he stowed the polishing rag and cleaner.

"Yeah, I'd be able to laugh too, if Karen wasn't more than a little P.O.'d. She says some of them really got into it. They scared the crap out of her the first time they did it. When she said 'earthquake' and they all hit the deck, she thought something had really scared them."

John met them at the back bay door. "You two ready to join us out back? We're just starting a game of h.o.r.s.e." He'd heard enough of Chet's tale of woe to pick up on its basic gist. "I think it's kinda sweet, just a chip off the old block."

"I wish Karen saw it that way. Parker timed this for the beginning of a unit on 'Natural Disasters around the Globe.' It took her a few 'mock disasters' just to figure out what the trigger was. She tried outsmarting them by using vague phrases like 'the event' but even the phrase 'really big wind storm' had them seizing in the aisles. She finally threw in the towel and moved on to a different subject. She thinks I put them all up to it. Boy, can that woman hold a grudge."

* * *

After playing a game of three on three they moved inside. Henry was waiting at the back door wanting out.

Chet bent to give the slow-moving dog a pat. "Hey, boy, you missed a great game. Cap, Roy and I smoked 'em." The Basset swung wide, avoiding Chet's touch. Chet straightened with a look of hurt on his face.

"Looks like Karen isn't the only one that can hold a grudge," John said with a grin. "And who can blame him? I read that dog book of yours. You're not supposed to use human toothpaste, dummy. They make it in dog-friendly flavors so they _like _to have their teeth brushed. Now because of you, he'll never learn to brush regularly, his halitosis will remain unchecked and he'll never win the battle against tooth decay."

The men spread out as they filtered into the station. It was quiet, for a Saturday afternoon, and they each were beginning to wonder how long this all-day lull would last.

The answer came at 1537 when the tones and Sam's voice from dispatch sent the squad out on a possible pediatric O.D.

* * *

The girl who met them in the driveway with an empty cough syrup bottle was frantic. Roy guessed her to be maybe thirteen. In her red, swollen eyes he read panic and remorse.

"I'm so sorry; I don't know how she got hold of this. I thought she was taking a nap."

Roy turned the brown glass bottle over as they climbed the stairs of the front porch. "Codeine," Roy read aloud to John. "My name's Roy and this is my partner, Johnny. Was this full?"

"I don't know," the girl answered, holding the front door for them. "My name's Trisha. I babysit Angel on weekends."

Roy handed the bottle back to the girl as he stepped inside. "How long ago did she drink it?"

"I don't know for sure. I found her in the bathroom holding the open bottle. I called right away, so it's been maybe 10 minutes." The girl stopped in the center of the living room, looking lost.

John was right behind the pair. "How old is she?" he asked as he pulled the front door closed.

"She'll be two next month, I..."

"_Where_ is she?" John interrupted as he turned in a searching circle, anxious to start an assessment on the child.

"I don't know! I guess she was upset when I scolded her. I ran to call for help and I only turned my back for like thirty seconds to dial and then she was gone. I can't find her anywhere." The young teen looked ready to cry again, but just when Roy thought she was going to, she seemed to win a battle and managed not to break down in front of the paramedics.

They split up, with Roy moving to the adjacent dining room and John starting in the front living room. They each dropped into an ingrained search pattern beginning with the perimeter of each room. Trisha made a quick check of the bathroom in the hallway and was headed for the back bedrooms when the door bell rang. She crossed to open the front door but hesitated, remembering to call out first, "Who is it?"

"Sheriff's Department."

This seemed to fluster her even more and she looked over her shoulder at Roy who had returned from the childless dining room. The girl looked so young, so unsure of herself, that he revised his earlier estimation of her age downwards to closer to eleven or twelve. He crossed the living room from where he had moved the drug box and biophone and reached around her to open the door.

A Los Angeles County Sheriff stepped into the house with a nod. "Lieutenant Dan Frey," the deputy said as he offered Roy his hand. "Since it was the sitter," he glanced down at a small note pad, "... a _Trisha M. Settinger _who called, we were dispatched too, in case you need help with consent to treat."

Roy felt a tremor flutter down his spine. It wasn't his. There was a quaking form behind him, trying to disappear between his shoulder blades.

"Roy DeSoto and John Gage, and this is Trisha." Roy twisted around, gently tugging her out from behind his back.

"Trisha, we need to find her as soon as possible. You can help. You have her parents' phone numbers, right? If you can show Lieutenant Frey to a phone, Johnny and I will keep looking while you get hold of them."

"Try to find out how much was in that bottle," John called from where he has bending over the back of the couch.

Roy knelt to open the biophone. "John, I'm going to call Rampart and see if they want us to give ipecac when we find her."

"Well, she's not in this room; I'll start checking the rest of the house." John paused by the girl standing next to the officer who was dialing a phone in the kitchen. "Let's check in here." He and a calmer, less skittish sitter searched every cupboard, meeting at the sink without finding the missing toddler.

The sheriff stood at the opposite counter speaking with someone on the other end of the phone line. "Thank you Ma'am, that's Angel, middle initial R, could you spell your last name, please? Okay, H, U, S, H, O, N, S, got it. We'll find her Ma'am, and you be sure to drive safely." Turning from hanging up the phone, he announced, "Okay guys, I got hold of the mom. We've got permission to treat. She says we should check the dog house on the patio. Angel sometimes hides there, and the bottle was almost full."

"I'll start out back," John said as he opened the kitchen slider to the backyard.

Roy replaced the biophone's handset. "Okay, I'm going to keep looking inside; Bracket ordered the ipecac as soon as we find her."

* * *

"Ee-yow!" John's voice yelped from the backyard, followed by silence.

"Johnny?!" Roy reversed directions and headed toward the kitchen. The lieutenant emerged from a bedroom and they both rushed outside to meet John as he carried a wide-eyed toddler and the teddy bear she clutched across a broad expanse of red brick patio. She looked a bit disoriented, perhaps by finding herself being whisked without ceremony back toward the house. The stormy expression on her face chronicled her struggle over whether to be excited or terrified.

"What happened?" Roy asked as he followed John back into the house.

"She was in the dog house alright, but she wasn't alone. A Cocker Spaniel bit me when I reached in. 'Mostly just startled me." John moved into the living room, where they had left the equipment.

As John set the girl down and started to collect a set of vitals, Roy squatted by the black drug box to fish out a small, brown plastic bottle. "Okay, Angel, I'll bet you're thirsty," he said brightly to the little girl tugging on the bell of the stethoscope around his partner's neck. She was beginning to warm to the idea of new playmates. "Johnny, you need to get the dog's rabies tag number. Don't get bit again," he added, only half in jest as he and John traded places.

The sheriff left to help corral the cocker spaniel which was currently putting up a fuss on the other side of the sliding glass doors.

They returned after a few successful minutes, with the dog weaving between their feet, wagging her tail so hard her hind end was swaying. John paused in the living room doorway, not wanting to overwhelm the toddler. "We're good; Gypsy here has tags that don't expire for months. How's it going?"

Lieutenant Frey was torn between concern at the gravity of the situation, and amused admiration as Roy sat, legs folded "criss-cross-applesauce" with the child sitting in front of him. He was gently sweet-talking the toddler into finishing the dose of syrup he had drawn up in a syringe. Angel had turned stubborn and was swinging her head away with lips sealed tight against any overture Roy made. He finally tickled her gently under the arms and got her to swallow the last bit carried on a giggle. Frey was suitably impressed by this feat of coercion, but he was pretty certain that what followed strayed a bit from the paramedic handbook.

Roy spoke quietly to Trisha for a moment and she left the room. Once she returned with a child's plastic teapot, and four small cups, he proceeded to play host to a formal tea party. There was standing room only, with John and Lt. Frey stationed nearby, leaning against the fireplace mantel, passing an empty pink tea-cup between them as they pretended to take sips. Those seated made sure the guest of honor got the lion's share of the "tea" Roy was pouring.

"What's that he's trying to get her to drink?" the lieutenant asked John under his breath.

"It's just water, but for the ipecac to do its job, she has to drink at least four ounces of it; eight would be better."

"Then what?" Frey asked as small hands helped Teddy take a sip.

"Then we wait. But it's probably best that we head for someplace less...carpeted. Which way is the bathroom?"

Angel stopped mid sentence to look down at her tummy.

"Yep..." Roy said as he unfolded his legs and lifted the little girl. He resisted the urge to hold her at arm's length. "...come on, pumpkin, time to move this shindig."

Before he followed Johnny into the bathroom, Roy paused. "Okay, honey, can Trisha hold your bear for a bit? She might get lonely out in the hallway."

John set the biophone up on the closed lid of the toilet. Roy glanced over and did a double take. He bent slightly, reaching an empty hand to tug John's coat sleeve up.

"It's fine. Most of the blood is coming from where a loose nail caught my arm."

"Here," Roy paused from lifting the toddler into the empty bath tub to hand his partner a small towel he'd pulled from the ring next to the sink. "You're dripping."

An ominous gurgle erupted from the region of the toddler's belly button, startling in volume and portents. The paramedics exchanged a knowing look. Roy picked her up again and turned back towards the tub.

"Is she gonna hurl?" Trisha asked, poking her head through the door and catching sight of the splattered blood on the sink and linoleum floor.

"Roy! Behind you, she's going down!" John accepted the toddler his partner pushed into his arms as Roy turned and lunged just in time to guide the sliding form safely to the floor.

In the meantime, little Angel did indeed hurl.

Gypsy added her slice of chaos as she barked in frenzy from her end of the hallway. Lieutenant Frey held her collar to keep her out from underfoot.

John knelt to place the child in the bathtub. _A day late and a dollar short_, he thought as he considered the front of his once blue uniform shirt. The cough syrup had been clear, but it looked like mac and cheese had been served before tea. Angel vomited again as John supported her tiny frame. Roy was getting a quick set of vitals on Trisha out in the safe zone beyond the bathroom door.

Meanwhile, their patient continued to oblige the paramedics. She retched. She tossed her cookies. She yarked. And just when John was about to run out of ways to describe the child's complete compliance with "doctor's orders", she made a fair attempt at bringing up her toenails. He waited for a full minute after the last dry heave before he turned the exhausted and frightened child toward him. With a resigned sigh, he gathered the pathetic bundle onto his lap to begin a hazmat cleanup with the wet wash cloth his helpful partner handed him.

"Next time _I'll_ catch the young maiden in distress," John muttered as he started in on Angel's face.

Roy considered an apology, but their eyes met over the drowsy female cuddled in John's lap. "Next time I'll flip you for her."

* * *

"Come on, Johnny, you're riding in with Angel. Her mom is meeting us at Rampart."

"Huh? Why? _You_ were the one that gave her the puking-potion. _What_? You don't think she's empty? She couldn't possibly have another drop left in her - do you think?" John took a cautionary step out of the line of fire as they lifted the gurney down the front steps.

"Nah, I agree she's probably finished. But you're going in with her because there's no need to stink up the squad." He shot an apologetic grin toward Albert, the ambulance driver when he made that declaration.

* * *

Half an hour later, Roy leaned against the wall of the exam room as Dr. Morton scrubbed the bite wound on John's hand with betadine. "I know you said the dog had its vaccinations, Gage**, **but I'm still concerned..."

"Aw, man, I am _not_ going through a series of rabies shots. That dog has current tags, she has no symptoms of illness of any kind and she had a motive: I was reaching into her dog house. I should've known better. She was doing what any red-blooded, normal, _healthy _dog would do. I hope you don't take this wrong Doc, but I'm getting a second opinion."

Roy pushed away from the wall without comment as Johnny slid off the exam table, but he had a grin on his face to match the one on Morton's.

John turned to his partner to continue. "Sure laugh, you think it's funny that he wants to jab me a couple of dozen times in the _stomach?_ And what about the dog? They'll have to put her down to do brain biopsies and..."

John's rant was interrupted by a laugh from Dr. Morton. "It was the _dog_ I was worried about, Gage. You didn't let me finish. I know _she's_ had her shots, but I don't know that she isn't in danger of catching some raging madness from you. Get back here. Since the bite is on your palm, I want to set a pair of stitches." Morton chuckled at his unexpected success at getting a rise out of Gage. He rotated John's other arm to examine the groove the nail had carved. "When did you get your last tetanus shot?

* * *

"There, do I pass inspection? Wanna check to make sure I cleaned behind my ears?" John called as he came out of the bathroom of the mens' locker room, toweling his hair dry so it didn't drip on the borrowed scrubs he wore. He dropped the towel in a hamper as he stepped close enough to make Roy flinch when he shook his head to remove a few remaining drops.

"Knock it off, Johnny. I'm going to call us in available if you're done draining the hospital of hot water. You were in there long enough."

"Well, I was only half kidding about washing behind my ears. There's nothing like getting up close and personal with a kid demonstrating a perfect ten in the execution of projectile vomiting. Yech," John shuddered. "It's going to be awhile before I can eat macaroni and cheese again."

"Let's not go there; it's a staple at my house."

"Well, you'll have to make my apologies to Joanne then, because the thought of it is enough..."

Roy purposefully interrupted John, hoping to break that train of thought. "While you were in the shower, I checked on Angel. Dr. Bracket thinks she'll be fine. They're going to keep her overnight for observation; there's no telling if her drowsiness is from codeine that got into her system, or from the ipecac itself."

"That, added to the sheer exertion of throwing up more than..."

"So, how much are you willing to bet the guys are serving us high tea in thimble sized cups next shift?" He picked up the plastic bag that held Johnny's defiled uniform and handed it to him as they headed out to the hall.

John thought for a moment, calculating the speed at which news traveled in both the fire and sheriff's departments, factoring in the irresistible nature of the tale and the time it would take to reach a fellow firefighter's ears. "You're on. I'm thinking it will take well over a week. You're forgetting that no matter how juicy the story is, it still has to jump agencies. I bet I can go so far as to guess exactly who the guys are going to hear it from and when.

"A couple of the truckies from 49's B-shift play poker with a few county sheriffs on the first Friday of every month that they all have off." John juggled the vaguely aromatic sack to free a hand. "That'll be six days from today." He passed the sack back to Roy and held up fingers from both hands as he started to keep track. "The guys from 49 will make sure everyone at 51s hears of it first thing Saturday morning when they all come back on shift." He brought up a seventh finger. "Not one of those jokers on B-shift will be able to keep it to themselves longer than the time it takes to call Chet at home, who will have plenty of time to beg...borrow...or steal..." Three more fingers straightened individually for punctuation. "...a little girl's tea set before we're on shift again the following Wednesday. They'll be asking us 'one lump or two' eleven days from today. You wait and see: it'll be Wednesday after next."

"You're on. Why am I holding this?" Roy shoved the sack back into John's arms and lifted the HT to put them back in service.

* * *

2

Monday morning found Roy tying his shoes in the locker room, his radar tuned for signs that the "ipecac tale" had reached A-shift's ears. He wasn't planning on wasting much time trying to read Stoker or Captain Stanley; they could both be as stoically unreadable as an Egyptian sphinx. Chet on the other hand was acting a bit too nonchalant and Marco was quick to make an about-face before returning minutes later without the shopping bag he had initially entered the locker room with. Yep. Something was a-foot.

Johnny joined them and the conversation centered around giving him a hard time about his latest near-conquest. They each finished changing into their uniforms and filtered into the kitchen for a pre-roll-call cup of coffee.

* * *

Later that morning, Roy and John were finishing mopping and straightening the day room and kitchen. They had the station to themselves since the engine crew had not returned from inspecting a new set of storage units that just went up over in the railroad yards east of the station. They themselves had gotten out of that tour because there was a paramedic peer review meeting scheduled at Rampart at 10 a.m.

"Johnny, I hope you have five dollars in your wallet, because I'll be collecting on that bet sometime this afternoon."

"Too soon, man. There's no way that bit of gossip traveled that fast." John carefully wound the paperclip and rubber band device he had salvaged from the envelope labeled "dead killer bee" Chet had tried passing around last winter after watching a re-run of _Killer Bees_ on TV.

Roy took a last swipe at the kitchen counter with a rag before turning to face John. "I'm telling you, Marco and Chet are hatching something. If Vince Howard heard about it Saturday evening before he got off shift, it woulda been easy enough for him to pick up the phone. Knowing those two, they probably had something planned before lights out."

"So, what are we gonna do about it?" John asked from where he crouched in front of the paperback Stoker had left on a corner of the kitchen table.

"Oh, I figure we should have something ready to pull out to share. Joanne says cucumber sandwiches will go nicely with whatever the guys are serving. The makings are in my car. We'll have to put them together after lunch. It wouldn't do to bring soggy offerings to this gathering." Roy leaned back against the counter as his partner finished placing the trap. "You really like to live dangerously, don't you? Come on, we're going to be late."

* * *

"How'd the meeting go?" Cap asked from his office doorway as he waited for his paramedics to join him after they hopped out of the squad.

"Pretty dry stuff. Brice felt the need to review the past six month's stats. I thought Johnny was going to put his own eye out with a number two pencil just to keep from sliding into a coma."

"You were looking pretty glassy-eyed yourself, pal. If we hadn'ta caught that run out to the college, we both would have needed precordial thumps to be revived." John paused with his hand on the kitchen door.

"Cap, what'd Mike make for lunch? I'm starving."

All three men swung back to retrace their steps at the sound of the dispatcher's voice.

_"Squad 51, see the woman at the retirement center, 21811 Main Street; twenty-one, eight, eleven Main Street; time out 1242"._

Cap paused to acknowledge the run,"KMG365. We'll _keep_ keeping yours warm," he offered as he turned from the radio podium to pass the address to Roy.

* * *

"You going in with her?" Roy asked as he picked up the biophone and black drug box. The question was almost a rhetorical one, since it had been John who started the I.V. and had built a rapport with the seventy-nine-year-old resident.

"Yeah, see you there," John answered as he trotted alongside the stretcher to hold the I.V. aloft. He followed the gurney into the back of the ambulance and moved to switch the oxygen cannula from the green cylinder tucked between the patient's legs to the flow meter on the back wall.

Roy slid the biophone and black med box across the deck and paused to give his partner a moment to get situated before swinging the doors closed and giving them a solid "all clear" double-tap.

* * *

They were running code one since the patient was stable, and Roy lost sight of the ambulance after he caught a second red light in a row. He was just clearing the intersection on the green when the shriek of brakes made him flinch a glance to the rearview mirror as he braced for an impact. The stomach-turning crunch of folding metal came from behind and to the right of the squad.

He pulled a sharp right turn into a small parking lot, grabbed his helmet and the HT and jogged back to the intersection.

"LA County, this is Squad 51. There's been a single car accident at the corner of East Carson and Figueroa Streets. The vehicle is partially blocking both south and west bound traffic. Respond law enforcement and a tow truck to this location. Standby while I check for injuries."

"Ten-four 51, LA County, standing by."

Traffic was flowing around the rear of the white Datsun pickup, which jutted into the intersection. Roy turned his face away from the spray of dirt the rear wheels were kicking up as they spun in reverse. The left bumper and part of the hood were wrapped around a traffic signal pole in snug embrace.

"Hey, are you hurt? Did you hit your head?" He called as he reached through the driver's window to turn off the ignition and pocket the keys. He gave the door an experimental tug, followed by a more emphatic two-handed effort. The door refused to yield.

"You take it easy, okay." He reached to put a restraining hand on the man's forehead only to have it batted away.

"Get your hands offa me. Who the hell are you? Give me back my damn keys!"

"My name's Roy DeSoto. I'm a paramedic with the fire department. Try not to move. Do you hurt anywhere? Looks like you hit your head." Roy boosted himself further in through the window to get a better look at the gash above the man's right eye.

"You're not a cop. Let go of me! You have no right to keep me here! You give me back my keys, or you'll be wishing I had stopped at having my lawyer take your badge."

The man had lost most of Roy's attention which was now centered on the high-pitched wheeze coming from under the dash on the passenger's side. "Try not to move sir," he repeated, as he squirmed his way back out of the vehicle.

"LA, this is Squad 51, respond a second squad to my location."

"Ten-four 51."

Roy yanked the handle on the passenger side; this time the door gave way with ease.

He met the driver who was scooting across the bench with the source of the wheeze held against his chest.

"Sir, don't move him any more; I need to check him out."

"Get your hands off of my son. He's _my_ son! You can't try to keep us from leaving!"

Roy was beginning to have his doubts about the truth of both of those statements.

"Let's just set him down here. Was he eating anything? Did he have anything in his mouth? Sir, does your son have asthma?"

Although the man wasn't answering any of Roy's questions, at least he had relinquished his hold on the gasping boy. The child's lips were circled by the barest of blue.

Roy positioned the child's airway, noting both shoulders shrugged with each breath and the spaces above the child's collarbones caved, matching the same harsh rhythm. He leaned in close to see if there were clues on the boy's breath; no discernible odor of hot dog, candy or the mint of gum. Roy asked the boy's searching eyes directly. "Son, do you have asthma?"

He was keying the HT even as the boy gave the slightest of nods in the affirmative.

"LA County, this is Squad 51, I have a male victim age approximately seven years old, currently having an asthma attack. Be advised I have no biophone, drug box or oxygen with me at this time." Roy did not mention that he was also lacking parental consent.

"Sir, does your son take any medication for his asthma; does he carry an inhaler or pills with him?"

"I, ah..."

Roy caught the flutter of the boy's right hand and followed the direction it pointed. He swept the space under the dashboard and fished out a metal Peanuts lunch box. Snoopy was doing his frenetic happy dance across the lid.

Something rattled as he lifted the lid and sifted through lunch remnants to produce a canister from the bottom of the tin box. Roy shook the inhaler and gripped the boy's chin in an effort to get his patient's attention. A darker shade of blue lips parted when he pressed the mouthpiece to them. "Okay, son. I need you to take a deep...

"TATE IS NOT YOUR SON!"

"Then be his father; he needs you right now," came the paramedic's steely reply. "Okay now, Tate. Take a slow, deep breath. Atta boy." After he squeezed the inhaler, Roy actually muttered an audible prayer that a greater portion of the medication had been delivered than he suspected. Tate's small hand came up to help steady the mouthpiece and his nod let Roy know he was ready for a second puff. This time the boy managed to inhale long enough for Roy to better synch the depression of the canister. "Good job, Tate. Now hold your breath just one more second. Great! You're doing great. Now slow and easy. Try to take slower breaths." The paramedic let his world narrow for the next several breaths as he cheered the weakest of respiratory efforts.

The wail of a sirened vehicle announced its approach and the man who had been holding the boy's legs in his lap found animation once again and scooped the boy up onto his shoulder. The burly, agitated man began to force his way past Roy in renewed effort to exit via the passenger side door. "Cut the crap, Tate Henry," he ordered the weakly struggling child. We talked about this. You are going to come and live with me now, so just settle down."

The boy did settle, but Roy judged it was more in surrendered exhaustion than due to any form of happy compliance.

"Hold on now, let's let that medicine work before we move him. More help is on the way." The unfolding scenario was causing Roy's already strident longing for backup and equipment to ratchet up a few notches.

"No, you hold on. My son and I are leaving _now_. I'll make sure he takes his medication, but you have no right to keep us."

Roy refused to budge, and instead reached to rotate a small arm for a better peek at likely veins. "_LOOK_ at your son. He can't breathe. He needs more than just his inhaler. He needs oxygen and an I.V. and a doctor. He needs to get to a hospital. And right now he needs you to help him get those things. If we don't get his airway open, he is going to die. _Your son_ _is going to die_ because you decided to refuse help."

"Get out of my way, I'm going to sue your ass off. You can't keep either of us from leaving." The father's agitation was ground out from behind clenched teeth.

"Maybe he can't, Mr. Erbright, but _I_ will."

Roy rolled grateful eyes skyward when he heard the stern voice coming from just off his left shoulder.

"Hey, Roy. Squad 43 is just another minute out." Lieutenant Frey guided Roy as he backed out of the pickup with Tate in his arms. The deputy reached to pull a somewhat deflated father out of the cab. Turning to his partner, while keeping a firm hold of Erbright's arm he called, "Here Justin, take him over to the patrol car and make sure he understands his rights." He leveled a look of warning into his prisoner's eyes. "Don't make him add 'resisting arrest' to your growing list of felonies."

"Kevin Erbright, you're under arrest for kidnapping and reckless endangerment of a minor. You have the right to remain silent..." Roy did not even look up from his patient as Deputy Justin Cataldo led the non-resisting man away.

Frey spread a blanket from the squad. "He took the boy from the his school's playground during recess. They missed him almost immediately. We got hold of his mom who has sole custody not to mention a restraining order against her ex. We asked for permission to treat him right after you reported the asthma attack."

"Watcha need, Roy?" A hand on the small of his back let him know Ted Fallon's position as the paramedic dropped the med box at Roy's left elbow.

Brice must have been covering at station 43, because the efficient hands that reached to place a non-rebreather oxygen mask on the now fully cyanotic boy's face belonged to Craig.

"Get Rampart, Ted. We need an order for an I.V. and epinephrine. This kid is tanking fast." Roy handed a tourniquet to Brice and he set another aside as he tore open packages and set an optimistic, optimally-sized needle along-side two incrementally smaller ones.

"Rampart, this is Squad 43, how do you read?"

He tossed Brice a matching set of packages and cinched rubber around the boy's right bicep. He felt a firm grip on his own forearm as he slapped his first choice into a wimpy imitation of a raised vein. He flicked his gaze up and silently acknowledged the unspoken concern in his fellow paramedic's eyes before inserting the middle choice of needles under his patient's skin.

"Go ahead, 43," Dixie's voice answered, "We read you loud and clear."

With an exaggerated sigh, Brice returned to the left inner elbow he held in his hand and continued to search for a back-up site. He abandoned that effort when the boy took one shallow breath, and...did. not. exhale. "Respiratory arrest," he announced as he moved to the patient's head to swap out masks for the one attached to the respirator valve.

"Rampart, we have a male patient, approximately six-years-old, about 45 pounds, in respiratory arrest..." Ted paused, hoping Roy would jump in with a few details.

"Got it!" Roy almost crowed in triumph. "Tell them he's an asthmatic, had two puffs of Primatene Mist eight minutes ago and ask for that I.V. and epinephrine. Do it now, Ted." Roy taped the I.V. cannula in place and attached a bag of Ringer's.

"His lungs are too stiff for the regulator, I'm switching to the Ambu bag."

"...requesting an I.V. and permission to administer epinephrine." Ted's eyes were wide enough to show their whites, but his voice held steady.

Roy's fingers were snapping out the bubbles from the dose of epi he'd just drawn up as Bracket's voice replaced Dixie's.

"Go ahead, 43. Give him zero-point-two milligrams of epinepherine IM. Start an I.V. with Ringer's lactate, and get me a set of vitals ASAP. Have a bag of D5W with one milligram of epi mixed and ready to piggyback into the I.V. but hold off on that until we get a strip..."

The first epi was injected into a thigh and Roy had the I.V. drip prepared before Bracket's order was "over". Brice continued to ventilate while Ted attached EKG leads and Roy listened to breath sounds.

* * *

Tate was breathing pretty much on his own; a watchful Brice hovered, armed with the bag/valve/mask to give an occasional assisted breath as they loaded into the ambulance five minutes later.

* * *

By the time Roy left exam room four, his young patient was answering questions and asking about his mom and dad.

John was holding up the front of the nurses' station pretending to be totally absorbed in a conversation with Dixie, but Roy did not miss the searching gaze that was turned on him the moment he stepped into the hallway. No doubt, John had gleaned enough information about the run he'd missed to have worked up a fair amount of curiosity and concern.

There was no way, this side of God striking Johnny momentarily deaf and blind, that his astute partner missed it when Craig Brice pounced. Roy was pulled into exam room three for a harshly whispered conference and lecture. A conversation, that, while it included stern admonishments and preachings against such egregious disregard for protocols, "protocols-that-were-set-in-place-to-protect-both-paramedic-and-patient", was not without a grudging undertone of concession that a life had been saved. Too bad it ended with an attention-getting slap to his back and Brice's instructions to never, _ever_ involve him in such goings-on again.

* * *

3

Roy took a sip from the can of Fresca he had dug from the depths of the refrigerator and made a face. _Who drank this stuff?_

Even though the 'Walking Rule Book' had made no mention of the need for full disclosure, it felt beyond wrong not to give Bracket at least a thumb-nail sketch of the actual timing of the pre-hospital treatments he had ordered for a small patient by the name of Tate H. Erbright*. The jury was still out as to whether the now incarcerated father would attempt to press charges. As Medical Director of the paramedic program, Dr. Bracket deserved a head's up. The fact that Roy respected the doctor and considered him a friend made that doubly true. They had a meeting scheduled for 4:30 in the afternoon; a meeting Roy was not anxious to attend, in spite of the fact he himself had set it up. At least he would be able to try for some sleep at home before endulging in a round of true confessions with his boss.

He upended the can so it could fulfill its higher purpose of distraction as it splattered in hiss and foam on the asphalt at his feet.

"Jackson on C's is gonna miss that. His wife is making him cut back on caffeine, calories, and the enjoyment of palatable beverages." Johnny's voice floated through the pre-dawn air before its owner joined Roy to lean against the brick at the rear of the station.

A nudging elbow interrupted his circling thoughts with the offer of a full glass of milk - twin to the one his partner was just polishing off. Roy shook his head.

"You want company when you talk to Bracket?" John started in on the second glass, as Roy turned his face towards him. "Frey and Ted filled me in... and Dix," John supplied the answer to the question he read in Roy's raised eyebrows.

"No, but you can meet me someplace afterwards - somewhere we can pursue "the enjoyment of palatable beverages."

John sipped his milk, Roy worried at events he could not change and the morning sky lightened.

* * *

"Well, I still have a job," Roy announced as he joined his partner at a corner table.

John snorted over the foam on his beer. "Like _that_ was ever in question. I know you needed to stew about 'what-ifs' and 'what-nots', but the bottom line is you did exactly what every one of us _hope_ we would have done."

Roy, not feeling up to a dissection of the run, returned the snort as John lifted the pitcher in pantomimed question. A nod filled another glass.

The silence lasted as long as Roy was willing to test Johnny's patience.

"Bracket had already guessed most of it; it turns out the biophone is not quite the buffer/filter/barrier we sometimes perceive it to be."

John held the easy quip that came to mind.

"He wasn't thrilled with how it all went down, but it helped that it worked out okay," Roy added after a few moments of silence.

"How's the kid doing?"

"They're keeping him for a few days to get a pulmonary doc in to consult. Both Bracket and Early think it's time Tate had a more involved regimen than an over-the-counter inhaler tucked in between his peanut butter and jelly."

* * *

Half an hour later a captain slid into the chair next to Roy; an engineer claimed a spot across the table. Roy poured without comment.

Chet sauntered in and with a "Hey, babe" and turned to confiscate a chair from the empty table behind him. Roy's eyes swept the room to settle on Marco. The final member of the crew leaned against the bar, content to peruse the pretty waitresses as he waited for the bartender to turn his way. Roy raised his original, still-mostly-full glass in greeting and settled back to let the conversation flow around him.

He looked up when a plastic saucer pinged off his wrist. Marco casually dealt five others across the table. Roy picked up the matching cup which was plunked before him to contemplate the Holly Hobby motif.

It turned out whiskey served from plastic tea-cups went down pretty smoothly.

* * *

*If you are playing the anagram game, this is the form of Tate's name you should use as the subject. Three rug rats in this episode have anagramed names.


	4. Hero in Jagged Rock

Shall Hunt a Roaming Rug Rat

(Anagrams Run Through It All)

Johnny's turn. Emergency! belongs to Mark VII and Universal. Beta-kudos belong to Enfleurage.

John Roderick Gage

(Hero in Jagged Rock)

A/N: There is no actual town of Jagged Rock in Arizona, (or anywhere else, as far as I can tell.) There are a couple of rock formations strewn about that carry the name Jagged Rock. One of them is not so helpfully located in the Antarctic. There _is_ a pillar formation by that name in Arizona eleven miles north of Joseph City which is on Highway 40/the Historic Route 66. For this story's purposes, and in my alternate reality, the unincorporated town of Jagged Rock occupies the space Joseph City lays claim to in real life and is named for the nearby rock formation.

* * *

**1**

Thursday, October 7

Six firemen gathered in the day room after roll call. They crowded and jostled to read what C-shift had left for them to find. Even typed, the bit of parody flowed down one page to a second. Both were taped to the wall next to a framed newspaper article and large glossy photo that now hung above the television set, beside the chalkboard.

.

_This is the road that the County built._

_._

_This is the hill_

_That lay under the road __that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the mud,_

_That soaked the hill _

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill _

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the captain with the white-striped hat,_

_That leapt for the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the lineman all mud-splat,_

_That clung to the captain with the white-striped hat,_

_That leapt for the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the crew mate in need of a __bath,_

_That latched onto the lineman all mud-splat,_

_That clung to the captain with the white-striped hat,_

_That leapt for the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the fireman with the black mustache,_

_That anchored the crew mate in need of a bath,_

_That latched onto the lineman all mud-splat,_

_That clung to the captain with the white-striped hat,_

_That leapt for the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the medic who rappelled down the path,_

_That tied off the fireman with the black mustache,_

_That anchored the crew mate in need of a bath,_

_That latched onto the lineman all mud-splat,_

_That clung to the captain with the white-striped hat,_

_That leapt for the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

_This is the specialist who threw himself flat,_

_To belay the medic who rappelled down the path,_

_That tied off the fireman with the black mustache,_

_That anchored the crew mate in need of a bath,_

_That latched onto the lineman all mud-splat,_

_That clung to the captain with the white-striped hat,_

_That leapt for the dad,_

_That fell with the lad,_

_That slipped in the mud,_

_That soaked the hill_

_That lay under the road that the County built._

_.  
_

Marco canted his head this way and that as he considered the news photo someone had gotten their hands on and had enlarged. "I still say we look _un poco_ like a string of those linking plastic monkeys that came in a barrel my niece got for her birthday last year."

"It looks like a fine example of teamwork to me," a voice from the doorway announced.

A-shift turned as one in startled, swift-formed attention when Chief McConnike stepped into the room from the apparatus bay; one of them whipped sheets of paper from the wall and held them behind his back.

"At ease, men. I just dropped by to congratulate you on a rescue well-executed. That was quite the work-up in the Sunday newspaper. It's good to see the media get it right for once." The Chief's eyes narrowed. "What's that you've got there, Hank?"

* * *

"McConnike's not so bad. I don't think I've ever heard him bust out laughing before. I don't know why Cap gets so freaked out every time he shows up," Chet said as he accepted the wet dish Mike handed him. He ducked his head in sudden concentration when Cap leaned in through the kitchen door.

"Keep it up, Kelly, and I'll give you a lesson on why it's best to respect the awesome power wielded by your superior officers," Hank warned before continuing on toward his office.

"Like he has any place to talk. It wasn't me that burned his beloved captain's hat way back in the olden days," Chet whispered to John who was standing at his elbow, reaching to re-wet the rag he was using to wipe the counters with.

"Kelly, there's a report lying on my desk that wants typing. You can get started on it after you're done polishing that dish," a disembodied voice rang from the apparatus bay.

* * *

During a lull between runs, John flopped into the comfortable chair. "So you're finally going to take it home," he said to his partner before settling back into the chair's embrace. "You know, Roy, I think I'm going to miss our portrait hanging up there."

The tale of Roy's tea party had spread with the predicted velocity. Everyone in both the sheriff and fire departments had heard it, commented on and teased him about it. After a few weeks of making the rounds, the story seemed destined to become legend. Bracket threatened to include the 'procedure' as part of the paramedic training curriculum.

A month after the fabled run, there was a new addition to the day room.

The guys from all the shifts, along with some of the folks at Rampart had pitched in to pay for the commissioned sketch done by a local caricaturist. The gal had talent. The piece drew heavily on the classic Alice in Wonderland block print by Sir John Tenniel. Roy was wearing a top hat "in the style of 10/6"; next to him was perched, not a sleepy door mouse, but a teddy bear. The artist had managed to render a March Hare with more than a subtle resemblance to Johnny and the little girl at the end of the table was the spitting image of a stubborn Angel Hushons. A bottle labeled both "syrup of ipecac" and "drink me" was set amongst the chinaware on the table. The work of art was captioned _Angel in Wonderland_. Over the past few months, Roy had mentioned more than once that the picture was growing on him.

John's response each time had been a variation of "I agree. That is one fine looking rabbit."

It was now October, and C-shift had taken the gift down from where it had hung since spring in order to make room for the photo and clippings of A-shift's recent mudslide rescue.

Roy settled onto the couch with the newspaper. "You can come visit it at my house. Joanne has plans to display it in the front hall."

* * *

Chet emerged from the office and with exaggerated drama, looked both ways for lurking superiors before slumping onto the couch. "This is the Captain in the white-striped hat, that tortured his lineman with typing and crap_,_" he recited quietly to his crew mates who were watching the local news.

"Aw, poor Chester B., did he wear his two little fingers to the bone on the mean ol' typewriter's keys? That sure took you long enough."

"Shut up, Gage, you don't type any faster than I do."

"No, but _I_ know when to keep my mouth shut, so I don't..." The tones interrupted John.

_Station 51, auto/pedestrian accident with injuries, 21824 North Avalon Boulevard, twenty-one, eight, twenty-four North Avalon Boulevard, time out: 1535._

"Gage, since when did you ever know when to keep your mouth shut?" Chet called across the bay as he pulled his turnout coat on.

His answer came in the form of a slamming squad door.

* * *

John jogged up to the front of the engine where his captain was conferring with Mike. Marco and Chet were disconnecting and dragging the inch-and-a-half to re-load it. "Cap, did you see where the driver went off to? I'd like to check him out before I take off. He looked a bit shaken when I saw him last."

John followed his commander's irritated glance to the hand preventing him from turning completely to face his paramedic.

"May I help you?" Cap asked in a voice that caught each of his crew's attention as he allowed the agitated man to finish pulling him back.

"You sure as hell can. I'm Thad's father. I'd like to know where you're hiding the son-of-a-bitch driver that ran my son down."

Quick looks were exchanged, but a preemptive shake of a head served to stay the imminent advance of four men. Shrugging his arm free of the agitated grasp, their captain answered in an even voice. "Sir, the young man who was driving the car that your son_ fell _in front of has been cleared of blame. There were several witnesses that reported seeing him trip into the street from the sidewalk. Thad himself admitted he and his friends were horsing around."

John filled the gap in the formation behind Captain Stanley when Marco stepped backward and slipped away unnoticed by the irate man now standing toe-to-toe with their commanding officer.

"He'd just been hit by a speeding car! Are you people going to let that driver walk away scot-free on the say-so of the faulty recall of a kid with a head injury?" Voice raised, the man's accusations must have carried, because the sheriff's head snapped up before Marco reached his side.

"All reports are that the driver wasn't speeding, and I don't have any reason to doubt your son's word on the matter. An officer is taking everyone's statement..."

Cap's sentence was shortened when a fist to his jaw served as a premature end mark. His head snapped to the side with the impact. John stepped to catch his shoulder, lending support as Hank caught his balance. Stoker was suddenly standing shield between his other shoulder and the sputtering father.

"My son is not a liar!" the man shouted as he struggled to escape Mike and Chet's restraining arms.

"Then you should take a moment and listen to him yourself, because he is honest enough to take responsibility for his actions." Hank brought the back of his hand up to swipe at the blood he could taste on his lip.

The deputy reached their side of the street to take hold of the fabric high on the still belligerent father's shirtfront. He spun the man to pin an arm behind his back even as he said in a terse voice, "I've got him, men." He turned to the leader of the watchful fire crew. "Do you want to swear out a complaint, Captain?"

The father and Hank's eyes met and each flicked a glance to the back of the ambulance that was pulling away from the curb to carry a paramedic and a son to Rampart. Hank ran the tip of his tongue over his molars testing each in turn. "No, this gentleman has someplace he needs to be, and I have a scene to wrap up."

"You can always press charges later when I get your statement." The officer paused to assess the captain's level of conviction on the matter. Comfortable with what he read in Captain Stanley's eyes, he continued. "Try not to take off before I can talk to you again. If you catch another run, I'll come to you at your station. Are you off shift in the morning?" He mostly wanted the man he still held firmly by a forearm to realize that his actions and loss of control could yet have serious repercussions. He was grateful to the captain standing before him for picking up on that, and then responding with a single nod. He towed the father off without reassurances that everything was "a-okay and there were no hard feelings." He appreciated it when folks, including fellow public servants, didn't mess with his process.

"Cap, I'm going to go look for the driver, if you're okay."

Hank heard the questions imbedded in that statement and answered the last first. "John, I'm fine - nothing broken, no loose teeth. You can check me out in a bit, but go see to the kid first. I saw him head this way after he talked to the deputy." Cap tilted his head to indicate the other side of the rig. "He was sitting on the curb when you first came up looking for him. I'll be over talking to the tow-truck driver if you need me."

* * *

John looked up at his captain who had just hoisted himself to the cab of the engine. "You want to ride with me to Rampart, Cap, seeing as how I'm headed there anyway?"

Hank eyed his junior paramedic and worked his jaw in experiment. "I should be good, John. I'll see you and Roy back at the barn."

"Cap, if it was me with the bruising face, you know you'd make me have a doc look at it," John ventured.

"Well, pal, this must be one of those times where rank has its privileges. You said it looked fine and it feels okay. We'll go with that as a working diagnosis unless my lower jaw falls off in my sleep sometime tonight - in which case, I might reconsider. Until then, ice should do nicely." Cap sensed John's displeasure and added, "Really John, I don't _always_ make you go in and you know it. If I did, the squad would never be in service."

* * *

**2**

As predicted, Cap's jaw was still in place and sported a yellowing bruise when they all lined up for roll call Saturday morning after their single day off.

Throughout the morning, they each noted the garland of eight plastic monkeys gracing the front of the photo in the day room. The chain of linked figures had been roughly arranged to mirror the positions of the crew and their two victims during the mudslide rescue. The 'Roy' monkey actually dangled from a string tied to Mike's counterpart perched on the top edge of the frame. The single blue monkey was labeled "_The Weakest Link"._

When John cornered him, Chet admitted nothing.

John's indignation carried him out the back door to finish hanging the last of the hose from C-shift's early morning blaze.

When Chet turned around, he faced mixed looks of rolling eyes and mild annoyance from the balance of the engine crew.

"I'd just like to point out that it was Dr. Morton who told Gage he was out of shape a few years ago, and he's as skinny today as he was then."

"It will be your fault if he goes on another fitness kick," Marco warned. "Do you want to get him obsessing about it again? Are you _loco?"_

"...or just auditioning for the role of the _missing_ link between these guys..." Mike reached to remove their simian counterparts, "... and the human race. I swear, Chet, sometimes..." Mike let his comment remain hanging, but he held Kelly's gaze for a moment to communicate his opinion of the joke.

Roy chose to hold his tongue all together and simply left to join John under the hose tower.

* * *

Lunch was interrupted by the tones calling both rigs as part of an automatic second alarm to a working fire at a multi use warehouse north west of the station. Captain Jim Alan out of 116's was incident commander and sent the whole crew of 51 in, including Captain Stanley. Mike was free since Tom Marsh, 116's engineer was manning the pumps.

The men of 51's were to advance an interior two-and-half-inch to the suspected seat of the fire - the paint booth of the auto body shop occupying the west end of the warehouse.

The building was fully charged with a roiling black smoke banking down from the wood-framed building's twenty-four foot ceiling. Cap scouted ahead with a Wheat lamp and directed his five men as they manhandled the heavy, unwieldy hose in a crouching, bending formation. A blanket of heated smoke churned at what would be a standing man's eye level.

Hank agreed with Jim Alan's choice of attack leads. The high ceilings of a warehouse required the volume, reach, and penetration offered by the two-and-a-half-inch.

This advantage came at a cost: a fifty-foot section of the hose his men were lugging held 106 pounds of water compared to the 52 pounds contained by an equal length of inch-and-three-quarters. It took all five of his crew to muscle the chosen lead around corners and down the aisles of empty pallets and flammable product stored in the main section of the warehouse.

116's rookie, Scott Wharton was on the nozzle of an inch-and-a-half with that station's other lineman, Tim Blair backing him closely. They were advancing their line parallel to the attack lead as backup and protection.

Cap led the two crews deeper into the warehouse. The red-batteried lamp afforded him several feet of visibility and he pointed out obstacles as both hose teams worked their way toward the west end of the building.

John was enjoying himself. It was rare for all six of them to be working fire suppression on the hoses together. After they'd wrestled the two-and-a-half into position, Cap had Marco aim the stream at the ceiling to cool the heated gases collected there. Chet was backing him and he pinned the hose by kneeling on it. Once the ceiling was cooled they were able to advance the line further to aim the stream at the seat of the fire, a partitioning wall separating the body shop from the rest of the building.

With the larger hose maneuvered into place for the time being, the static line didn't need as much tending, so John, Mike and Roy had a chance to take a moment to be impressed by the knockdown power of the more than a ton of water per minute presently at Cap's disposal.

All-in-all John sensed they were gaining the upper hand. This was part of what he loved about the fire fighting aspect of his job: that they could show up, enter the fray and literally wrest property and lives away from sure destruction. Every battle didn't go smoothly, but he got to feel the exhilaration of winning often enough to recognize and appreciate it when things did go well.

Cap motioned for Mike and John to spell the linemen on the nozzle. The effort required to overcome the increased nozzle reaction of a two-and-a-half, (all that water flowing _out_ of a hose also forced the nozzle _back_) made for rapid fatigue of the nozzle team. This is what justified the added manpower currently dedicated to the larger-caliber hose's deployment. John moved in to place a knee on the hose and take Chet's place, while Mike took over the stream still aimed at the base of the wall in front of them. John leaned into Mike's crouching form to better brace him. Marco and Chet each moved aside to take a breather.

Wharton and Blair were barely visible through the still-thick blanket of smoke as they tended to the random flare-ups occurring in the stacks of empty pallets on either side of the aisle the team was currently set up in.

John turned instinctively at the metallic-sharp clang and sudden shift of the SCBA on his back. It was a split second after something cracked into the back of his helmet, throwing his chin to his chest, that he recognized the form of a rogue nozzle as it twisted away and danced back into the curtain of smoke.

"Mike, watch out!" he called even as he lost his balance and let go of Mike's shoulder to keep from pulling the engineer into his lap. John never went completely down because Marco moved to catch him as he fell to the side. Both Chet and Roy pounced on the trailing tail of the two-and-a-half, simultaneously moving to support Mike before he was forced backwards.

"Get control of that hose!" Cap barked as he turned a ducking shoulder to the threat of the flailing inch-and-a-half. It was Blair that managed to follow the snaking, bucking line and subdue its nozzle.

During the mutiny of the smaller-gauged hose taking place seven feet off to the right, the stream of the two-and-a-half never wavered as Mike continued to concentrate it on the red glow visible through the smoke. Cap tapped Roy out, freeing him to check on John, who Marco still supported as they crouched three feet to the left.

"Stoker! Kelly! You got this?" Cap used the raised voice necessary to be heard through his face mask. Two nods released him to sort crew and hose.

Blair, with Wharton behind him, was fanning a stack of boxes that had stubbornly presented them with flame twice before. Cap placed a hand on Blair's arm to get his attention. With a sideways tip of his head in the rookie's direction, Cap asked two silent questions. _Are you okay? Is he okay? _

A cocky nod and its partnered smile translated clearly through Blair's face mask.

"Be sure to switch places in a minute!" Cap was sometimes amazed at the nuances of communication firemen were able to express during the raging havoc of a fire. Even conversing through two face shields at near shouts, he was certain Blair caught his intent and would have the rookie out front and "back in the saddle" in short order.

A quick check-in with Mike and Chet assured their captain that they were doing fine on the attack lead. Marco had joined them, so that situation was well in hand. A searching sweep of the area that Mike was concentrating on revealed there was very little red left to attack.

After having taken the few minutes required to assure the hose teams had themselves reset, Hank was able to turn his attention to his fallen paramedic. The fallen paramedic who, he noticed during his crouching approach, hadn't _stayed_ fallen but was presently giving his partner a hard time as Roy refused to be shrugged off.

"Gage, you settle!" Hank commanded in a tone that lent itself well to being heard, face mask and fire-scene-chaos not-withstanding.

Roy, a master at fire-scene-nuansical communication, conveyed relieved thanks to his captain for his partner's subsequent settling.

"Will he be okay to walk out, or should I call for a stokes?"

Johnny started to _un_settle but grudgingly quieted back to the sitting position Roy was trying examining him in when two firm grips on his shoulders insisted he do so.

"I can take him out, Cap! I think his air tank and helmet took the brunt of it!" Roy's raised voice held none of the anxiety Hank was listening for.

"Okay! See you on the outside. We won't be much longer!" Hank turned his gaze on his junior paramedic and though he spared John a mask-shielded smile he gave the shoulder he still held a gentle shake to reinforce his command. "Behave!"

* * *

John and Roy were lending a hand at the rehab area when the rest of 51s and the two linemen from 116's emerged from the building towing both hoses in their wake. Pulling his mask off, Cap's roving eyes located his paramedics before he pulled Scott Wharton off to the side of the fire scene. Captain Alan rounded the corner of the building, noted his rookie and Blair's positions and continued to check in with the other companies, HT pressed to an ear. After declaring the fire under control, he made a bee-line to Scott Wharton and Captain Stanley's side.

While Hank foresaw some intense drills in young Wharton's immediate future, he could easily recall a few rookie-lessons that had been learned during active fires at higher costs than those exacted today. He left captain and lineman reviewing a few salient bullet points of nozzle safety. After checking in with his engine crew, he moved to join his paramedics.

As his captain neared, John lifted his helmet and pointed to the brand new scuff above the rear brim. "You were right, Cap. Firemen should always wear their protective gear, I see that now."

Cap recognized his junior paramedic's effort to forestall the inevitable line of questioning, and was unimpressed with his counterfeit sass. "Stow it, Gage. Is he alright, Roy? Do you two need to make a trip to Rampart?"

"No, I think he actually came away unscathed. His air tank might need to be condemned; there's a pretty hefty ding in it just under the valve. Other than that and the added notch in his helmet he was pretty lucky."

"Glad to hear it. See, Gage I _don't _make you go in every time you scare the daylights out of me. Why don't you two call yourselves in as available and then go help the guys get the equipment squared away? I'll be over here for a bit."

Once they were placed 'available at scene', the paramedics didn't remain there much longer than the time it took to make the call. Roy waved to their captain as he and John trotted to the squad.

* * *

Driving back to the station after a set of closely placed but pretty routine medical runs, Roy recognized the signs that his partner was deep in the throes of processing. Johnny's silent gaze aimed outside the passenger window was the tip off. Under normal circumstances, Johnny's silent _anything_ was a portent of things best not left to percolate overly long.

"Wanna talk about it, Junior?" was Roy's opening salvo.

John turned his head to face forward, but his response seemed to stall sometime after he opened his mouth but before actual words were formed.

Roy signaled an impromptu left into a small parking lot, pulled the squad into a random parking space and turned the engine off. He shifted slightly to face the brooding silence oozing from the passenger side and waited.

After several seconds, his quiet patience was rewarded.

**"**Roy, do you think I'm a weak link?"

Roy sighed, having expected something along these lines, including the genuinely worried inflection present in his partner's voice.

"No, Johnny, I do not. Chet doesn't either, if that's what's got you stewing. He just couldn't resist the linked-monkeys tie-in with the hard time Dr. Morton gave you when you pulled a shoulder muscle a couple of years ago. And if you're referring to Marco catching you back at that fire this morning, you've done exactly the same for him - more than once. Hell, you've pulled, carried, pried and dug every one of our backsides out of tight spots too many times to count. No one keeps track, John; no one needs to." Roy was watching Johnny's face to make sure he was making his point successfully. Satisfied, he backed the squad and maneuvered her to turn back onto West Carson.

**"**McConnike wasn't just talking about that one rescue when he dropped by the other day. A-shift works well as a team because every one of us pulls more than his own weight, even the ones that never put on an ounce no matter what they eat."

At the mention of eating, John's stomach pitched its request for sustenance. John threw Roy a "what-can-I-say" look of half-chagrin.

"We both missed lunch. 'How 'bout we get something to tide us over until supper?" Roy suggested.

"Now you're talking. Let's swing on over to Omega Burger. I like their chili fries and I hear they've got a new gal working the drive through."

Roy rolled his eyes at his insatiable, incorrigible partner and then changed lanes. "You said Bracket thinks Thad Swanson is going to be alright, what else did he say?"

"He's got a long road ahead of him, what with that fractured pelvis and all. They don't expect him to have any lasting effects from his head injury," John answered before launching into a sharing of his opinion that Thad's father should be grateful that his teenage son would eventually be fine, that he should be a hell-of-a-lot _more_ than grateful that Cap hadn't simply decked him and that he wasn't going to get slapped with assault charges. John voiced how much he'd wanted to take a swing at the man himself. He made the unlikely segue from retributional violence to vacation plans and settled into an animated, still mostly one-sided discussion of the wonders awaiting him during his upcoming extended days off.

Roy relaxed into the driver's seat and allowed the familiar cadence to fill the cab of the squad.

* * *

Filling the bottomless pit that masqueraded as Johnny's stomach required not only a large order of chili fries but also a cheeseburger and a shake to wash it all down. Roy contented himself with a hamburger and Coke.

Back on the road, John sighed in momentary appetite appeasement. They traveled in companionable silence until John suddenly sat up straighter. "Pull over here, Roy."

He was opening the squad's door before Roy could manage to bring the rig to a complete stop. Roy parked around the corner and out of traffic on Anchor Avenue, called in a still alarm and hustled to join his partner back on 123rd.

John was leaning against a low, decorative wall trying to comfort the sobbing child he held in his arms. To Roy's experienced eyes, he judged her to be near his daughter's age, maybe a bit younger which would put her at perhaps five years old. Roy scanned the street and sidewalk for clues as to who the child might belong to, but the only pedestrians on their side of the street were a group of four boys a few houses down the block.

"Roy, it looked like those kids were following her, maybe you should go see what's up." John didn't come out and say it, but Roy could tell from John's tone of voice that he was more than a little suspicious that the boys were at the root of his charge's distress.

"Good idea Johnny, I'll be back in a minute."

Roy approached the group of boys who looked to range in ages from a few years older than the little girl upward to maybe twelve or thirteen. They stood shuffling and casting glances behind them in a way that made Roy wonder if they were going to bolt. The oldest boy stepped forward when the paramedic stopped a few feet away.

"Do you know what's got that little girl so upset, son?" Roy tried to keep his voice neutral while he gave the boy a chance to explain.

"Yeah, she's our little sister. I'm Shad Ore. Ron..." the speaker-for-the-group turned to throw a withering gaze at one of his brothers, "has been teasing her by telling her she can't come with us because she hasn't turned into a boy yet, but that when she finally does, she can always come along." The boy turned fully toward his little brother and Roy reached to restrain the lad before blows were exchanged.

Ron, who stood with his head bowed, mumbled, "It was Dick Heskins who had to come along and tell her we were lying and that we only wanted to get rid of her and that she was stuck being a girl forever." The boy lifted sorrowful eyes which Roy thought held true remorse. "Then she laid into him like the Tasmanian Devil, shouting that her big brothers would never lie to her. She used words I can't repeat. She's too little to really have hurt him, but now she won't come home. She says we lied." The boy hung his head again.

"Well, son, you did. You fellas stay right here. We're going to need your help in a minute to fix this." With that, Roy walked the quarter-block back to where his partner had a lap full of snot-sniffing, hiccupping tomboy. John was clearly smitten.

"Those are her brothers..."

"Yeah, I gathered as much. She's feeling better now, but I think our new worry is that little Daphne here is planning some pretty bloody vengeance on her brothers."

Roy took a peek at a skinned knee. "I hear the other kid looks worse."

"Daphne, hi, I'm Roy. I also hear your brothers said some stuff that got you upset. Brothers can be a pain sometimes, huh?"

His answer came in the form of a small shuddering nod.

"But you know they love you, right?"

This caused a messy little face to turn into John's shoulder and scrub back and forth in disagreement. The girl peeked over at the brothers in question. "They lied. They told me I was going to get to be a boy, and now I can't." The little girl dissolved into soul-wracking sobs. "I'm going to tie them up and poke their fingers with bamboo-boo sticks and, and drip water on their heads until they go crazy. Then I'm going to, to...THEY DON'T WANT ME!" she ended in a pathetic wail.

"Now, honey, I know that's how you feel, but look at them standing over there. They would have skedaddled by now if they didn't care. They look kinda sorry if you ask me." Roy looked over at the four, who actually did look devastated at their little sister's hurt. They had edged closer and were now twenty feet away.

With a final, sad hiccup, Daphne took another peep over John's shoulder. Roy took his note book out of his shirt pocket. "If you give me your parents' names and phone number, I can call them and they can punish your brothers really good for teasing you and making you cry and all." Roy paused with his pen poised to take down information he had already gathered from the boys only minutes ago.

"No, _don't_!" came a fierce demand from the tiny girl as she slid down from John's lap. Daphne stomped her foot, and faced them with her hands on her hips. "Don't you dare turn me into a tattle tale! You'll get Shaddie in trouble. He's 'sposed to control us hooligans!"**  
**

Roy stepped away trying to hide a smile as John boosted Daphne up on the wall to make a more thorough inventory of her scrapes. He joined the boys who had advanced to within ten feet of their sister, and spoke quietly. "You're going to need to apologize, but first, my partner and I need you to rescue us from your sister's wrath at the mere suggestion that she rat you out. You know, guys, she isn't always going to be the pain-in-the-butt tag-along that she is now, but I have a feeling that she is always going to be a handful. She'll need her big brothers to watch out for her." Roy followed behind the two oldest as they sidled up to their sister. John lifted Daphne down from the wall.

"We're sorry, Daffy," Shad knelt to one knee, "wanna come over here and have a talk?"

"Don' call me Daffy!"

"Okay little duck, but come'er, _please_?" He held an arm out in invitation which was instantly filled with kid sister.

"Hey, Daffy, we're headed on over to dig for night crawlers in Old Man Calloway's compost pile. We're gonna start a worm farm. You wanna come along?" Ron offered from where he stood next to them.

"Don't call me Daffy, Byron _Reginald_!" The girl turned in fury on her second-oldest brother with fists clenched. Threat delivered, she relaxed before asking sweetly, "Can I go fishing too?"

"Fishing season doesn't open for months, dum..." Ron cut his insult short at the warning looks he received from the three older males in the group. "Yeah, uh, sure. You can bait my hook. But we can't go for awhile, okay?"

This statement sealed Daphne's joy, as her big brother stood and settled her on his shoulders. She was all smiles as she leaned out to give John a hug. She whispered something in his ear. He whispered something back. It was a long conversation.

* * *

"Shake a leg, Junior," Roy urged as John neared the squad. "We need to get back to the station so I can finish getting dinner ready and in the oven." Roy cast an assessing look at the threat the clouds held. "'Looks like the weatherman was right about our break from the rain ending tonight." He pushed off from where he'd been leaning against a side panel and opened the driver's side door. "What were you two conspiring about back there? She proposed to you, didn't she? Can I be your best man?" Roy paused his teasing as they both climbed into the rig.

"Nah, she just told me she had to go help her brothers, but invited me on their fishing trip _tomorrow_." John reached for the squad's microphone, and announced, "LA, this is squad 51, available," before replacing it in its cradle. "She also told me she wanted to be a firefighter when she grows up, but that's supposed to be a secret." John flopped back against the bench seat in dismay. "Aw, man. She's going to come after me when she finds out she can't join the fire department because she's a girl. Roy, I never promised her she could."

Roy started to chuckle at how worried Johnny sounded, but he almost aspirated when his partner unconsciously crossed his arms to tuck his fingertips protectively into his armpits. "Relax, Johnny. By the time she's old enough, the department probably _will_ be allowing women to join." *

* * *

"...I'm just saying, not a lot of the old Route 66 will be around to drive much longer, what with Interstate 40 slowly replacing it section-by-section." John was talking over his shoulder to Roy as they stepped out of the squad.

"'Slowly' being the operative word there. Hell, Gage, at the rate that highway's going in, you'll have at least a decade of vacation time to waste haunting cheesy roadside attractions before they finally finish." Chet joined them from across the apparatus floor. The three made their way past the county map and radio podium to the kitchen.**

"Roy, we went ahead and put the lasagna in the oven a few minutes ago, 350 degrees, right?" Marco turned from where he was buttering the loaf of French bread.

"Hey, Johnny, didn't you mention you'll be going through Needles on your pilgrimage east?" Chet asked as he spread the evening newspaper out on the table, funny page showing. "You'll have to say 'Hi' to Spike, Snoopy's brother." At John's blank look Chet expounded, "_You_ know, skinny beagle, handlebar mustache, fedora hat...lives in a cactus... he sometimes goes into town for a drink all by his lonesome. No one should have to drink alone, not even a solitary cartoon character. Come to think of it, you two would have a lot in common."

John for once declined to take the bait and started to set the table, moving the funnies aside.

"Actually, he must live about fifty miles _south _of Needles since his home is a saguaro cactus. The only ones in California are in the Whipple Mountains," Mike piped in with a bit of trivia as he reached for the section containing the cross word puzzle.

"You were _that _kid in school weren't you, Mikey? The irritating, _smart _kid who always ruined the curve for the rest of the class."

John lost his brief resolve. "At least it looks like he outgrew 'irritating', which is more than some of us can claim. And don't call him 'Mikey'," John added with a grin as he beat Stoker to the requisite response.

* * *

With high hopes for a half hour or so of no runs, they all sat down to eat.

"Thanks for getting dinner going, Marco," Roy said, reaching for another piece of garlic bread.

"De nada. We were beginning to wonder if you two were ever going to make it back to the station this side of midnight. By the way, guys, Chet and I are going to watch Monday night football at my place, anyone want to join us? Can Karen make it, Chet?"

"Nah, she's got parent/teacher conferences. At least I'll get to see her tomorrow. We're going to catch a matinee and then go check out a new restaurant she's been wanting to try down on Long Beach. How 'bout it, guys, anyone else up for Monday night football?"

"I'm picking up a half-shift tomorrow night over at Station 36, so I'd best be available Monday to pull my weight with homework/bedtime enforcement. Joanne does it enough on her own without having to do it four nights in a row. Maybe next time."

Cap was shaking his head as he too reached for the bread. "Sorry, Karen isn't the only one with parent/teacher conferences that night."

"I'm in," Mike answered. "It can be our warm-up for the LA/Chicago game on the 17th. Chet, I can't believe the seats you managed to get us."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm going to have to miss both games, but I'll be camping north of Needles Monday night and still driving home Sunday afternoon. They should both be great games; even with all their injuries, the Rams are looking pretty good."

"Gage, tell me again what is so compelling about visiting all those touristy attractions, 'cuz I'm not seeing the draw."

"Well, besides some pretty awesome climbing around Flagstaff, there are the trading posts, cliff dwellings, a meteor crater and the south rim of the Grand Canyon. Did you know they call Flagstaff "The City of Seven Wonders"? The Grand Canyon's only one of them. And the hotel I'm staying at is supposed to be haunted by a bride and groom murdered on their honeymoon back in the 1930s. And right on Route 66, there's the Grand Canyon Caverns. Did you know they're over two hundred feet deep and..."

The phone rang and interrupted John's enthusiastic descriptions. He slid his chair and tipped it _way_ back, stretching to reach the handset rather than get up to answer it. After listening for several moments, he answered, "Sure, he's right here... sorry about your photo albums - here, I'll let you speak to him." John waggled the phone in Cap's direction. "It's for you, Cap," John gave his captain a cryptic look that carried warning but not alarm and stood to give him some room in front of the phone.

While Cap held the phone to his ear, John mouthed "_wife_" and pointing to the ceiling added "_leaking roof." _He moved between the backs of Roy and Marco's chairs and the stove to open the rear kitchen door. The sound of the driving rain made any comment or weather announcement on John's part completely unnecessary.

The men turned their attention to their captain instead. Though he was listening intently, he had yet to enter the phone conversation. Finally, with a shoulder-shrugging sigh, their fearless leader said, "Well, hon, at least you got the boxes moved before they all got wet..." He paused with a wince. "I know, and I'm really sorry those are the ones that got ruined... I guess... Just put a tub under it for now and we'll deal with it in the morning. I love you." This seemed to be a conversation ender, because he hung up the phone and took his seat again.

"Well, I've got a date with a roof and a hammer tomorrow. Rosie is fit to be tied. There's a drip right above our bed and some boxes in the attic got wet. Important boxes. Wet boxes whose wetting I may never hear the end of."

Marco stood to start clearing the dishes. "Cap, when should I come over to help? I'm free most of tomorrow."

Hank held up his hands to halt the other four offers getting set to be launched. "Not you, Roy... you'll need to try for a nap before you're on shift at 36. Same goes for you, Chet. You'll need your beauty rest for your date with Karen. John, you'll be half way to hiking nirvana before I get a chance to check out the damage and make a trip to the hardware store.

Cap considered for a moment. "So, how about this for a plan: Marco, and Mike, if you're free - you two can meet me at my house at... let's make it 10:30 or 11:00. That'll give me a chance to size up the roof and gather supplies, and Marco, you'll be able to catch early mass if you want."

* * *

"Damnit, Henry, I should just leave you out here to drown," John growled as he squirmed further under the Rover to snag the dog by his collar. He backed out through the pooling rain, dragging the reluctant beast and matching him groan for moan.

"Henry, come _on!" grunt "_Since when are you afraid of a little..." _doggy-moan/human growl_ "...rain? You big doofus." _whimper/arghh_ "It's not like you're going to melt...you...big...wuss." John cleared the under-carriage and towed the eighty pounds of low-slung animal through puddles and still-falling rain to the back bay doors where all five of his highly entertained crew mates waited with towels and amused grins. Cap and Roy had pulled a pair of lawn chairs out of storage to enjoy the show.

"This is the crew mate in need of a bath, that captured the hound all mud-splat," Chet chanted as he tossed a towel that landed in a drape over John's head.

"Very funny guys. Here, Marco you take him," Johnny said, still half-growling. The dripping dog-wrangler dried his face off. "I'm going to go get cleaned up. The next guy who lets this dog out for his evening constitutional better remember to let him back in." Not one of the laughing men bothered with a rebuttal. "Cap, I really think we should invest in a dog door," John said over his shoulder as he squished his way towards the locker room.

* * *

John joined the rest of the crew in the day room, still toweling his hair. "Nice, Chet. Like I needed to get any wetter."

"The phantom can't help it if it took you all shift to discover your celebratory vacation send off. He just sets 'em: the rest is serendipitous timing and fate. Besides, he knows you'll miss all the excitement around here while you're gone."

"Whatever, Chet. You just go on pretending you're not jealous while you're hanging miles of hose and I am getting some prime climbing in."

"I just don't get you, Gage. You go out of your way to waste vacation days doing something you get paid to do at work."

"Chet, you know rappelling down the side of a building or even over a cliff is not the same as climbing rock. If you weren't such an _irritating _person, I might have asked if you wanted to come along."

"Too late, Johnny-my-boy, I've got big plans, like I told you all at dinner. Hey, Karen's got an older sister; I think she's only 36 or so. Maybe she'd go on a pity-date with you after you get back and shake the desert sand out of your shorts."

"Well, on that note, gentlemen, I'm going to hit the sack," Cap called to interrupt the seemingly endless stream of barbs flying back and forth. He rose from the couch in a stretch. "The rest of you can stay up to greet the next alarm, but I've got a leaky roof and a wet, disgruntled wife to deal with in the morning."

* * *

**3**

Mike turned from closing his locker and tossed something in gentle underhand to John. "Here are some road tunes I recorded for you. I put several versions of Bobby Troup's _Get Your Kicks on Route 66 _on there_. _You'll have to let me know whose rendition you like best: Troup's, Nat King Cole's, Chuck Berry's or The Rolling Stones'."

"Thanks, Mike," John said as he juggled the tape that bounced softly against his chest. He tucked the cassette into a front shirt pocket before he joined the flow of A-shift as they all headed to the back lot.

Out of habit, every eye scanned the level of cloud-threat, trying to judge the day's weather.

"John, you drive safe. You and Roy had a busy night. Stop for a nap if you need to."

"Actually, Cap, I think I'll head home for a bit. My schedule's flexible enough to fit in a few hours sleep before I head out. 'Sorry I can't help with your roof. Hopefully the rain will hold off while you are working on it."

"No problem, pal. You have a good time. With Mike and Marco's help, it shouldn't take long to set it right."

"I still don't know, Gage. That road goes through a lot of flat desert. The girls will be able to see you coming from a mile away."

"Chet, not everyone has to sneak up on a girl to get her to talk to him. And besides, like I tried to tell you last night, this trip is about catching up with an old friend, driving parts of that road while it's still there and getting in some top notch bouldering and really excellent crags... things you obviously are unable to appreciate."

"Johnny Gage, off work, on vacation and not on the prowl? I'm just not buying' it."

"Chet, why don't you go play in the freeway while I go and explore the highway, _my _way?" John shot over his shoulder before climbing into the Rover.

"Roy, I'll try calling you at work Thursday night to let you know how climbing went," he called before pulling the door closed.

* * *

John stopped in Needles for a late lunch, to get gas and to flirt. He'd planned on buying a post card but instead he got a fellow patron to snap a Polaroid of him and two very comely waitresses under the "Hungry Bear" sign outside the restaurant. Flapping the photo to dry it, he wrote on the back: _No 'Spike' sightings, but plenty of other interesting attractions and the terrain's not so flat from where I'm standing. _

He sweet-talked the pretty blond out of an envelope and a thirteen cent stamp, slipped the inscribed photo inside and addressed it to Chet at the station. After tipping the gals handsomely and stashing the Land camera back in with his "for-more-serious-photography" Cannon SLR camera, he was on his way again.

John spent the balance of Sunday setting up camp north of Needles, scoping out a few trails, snapping what he hoped were frame-worthy photographs and wondering if Cap got his leaky roof fixed.

* * *

Monday was spent exploring further north. In desert canyons and among the Joshua trees he lost himself enough to forget to wonder about who was winning the Rams/49ers game.

* * *

On Tuesday, somewhere near Ash Fork, Arizona John became firmly set in the opinion that Bobby Troup really did _own _his most famous of songs. By Wednesday afternoon, he was checking into the Weatherford Hotel in Flagstaff, where he met up with Steve Poole. Steve and he had gone through paramedic training together and had become climbing buddies before Steve had moved to Gallup, New Mexico to be near his wife's aging parents. He was now an engineer with the fire department there.

What followed were two days of climbing bliss that John felt he could barely do justice to when he tried describing them to Roy Thursday night.

"Man, Roy, the cracks at Paradise Forks were world class, and the bouldering at Priest Draw was every bit as challenging as Steve promised. It's been perfect climbing weather." John paused to let Roy get a word in.

"Yeah, well that's good; at least that half-shift was a quiet one. Oh, a small change of plans: I'm going to spend an extra day in Flagstaff to meet up with some climbers Steve introduced me to at LePetite Verdon this morning." John listened for a moment.

"Yeah, it's pretty popular because it's just ten minutes outside of Flagstaff. The locals call it 'The Pit'. Steve and I did several pitches, and there are a couple more I'd like to try."

"No, he has to get back to work Saturday morning."

"_Yes_, I trust these climbers, but they're not guys. They're a couple of local gals, and I'm telling you Roy, not only can they _climb, _but they're a lot more fun to watch during a belay than you or Steve - no offense."

In the background John heard the tones, and his muscles tensed ready to propel him to a squad parked roughly 481 miles away.

_Squad 51, Engine 49..._

"Go, I'll talk to you when I get home on Sunday."

..._Auto-auto accident with injuries..._

_"Yes, _I'll be safe. You be careful too."

..._twenty-sev_.

The phone's dial tone cut off the address before Sam Lanier's voice could tell him where the squad was heading. He sighed thinking he hadn't gotten a chance to ask Roy who he was working with that shift.

* * *

**4**

"John, damnit, I'm not going to let you waste an entire day of your vacation ferrying me home. We've already wasted most of the morning trying to get the damn thing started. I'll take the bus, and pick my truck up whenever it's fixed. It's 185 miles, _one way." _Steve turned and gave the rear wheel of his pickup a hardy clout with the heel of his boot.

"Shut up and listen to me. I'm already staying an extra 'bonus' day in Flagstaff, and I'll be back here in plenty of time to see what the booming town of Flagstaff has to offer in the way of Friday night entertainment."

"You were going to check out the South Rim today."

"I'll just do my sightseeing out your way. I expect the Grand Canyon will still be waiting some other time."

"I think I bruised my Achilles tendon."

"It's my vacation."

"There's not much to see out my way, and we won't have time to see it, or do any climbing, or even feed you properly."

"No offense to your wife's cooking, but I'd rather stop and sample what the 'Main Street of America' has to offer..." John paused to throw a look of mock-disgust at his friend's overly dramatic look of shock. "... in the way of cuisine. Get your mind out of the gutter," he said before continuing his argument. "And anyway, it'll just mean more of the 'Mother Road' for me.

"The 'Will Rogers' Highway','" Steve offered with a smile but was still shaking his head in refusal.

John held his hands up in near-surrender, before brightening. "Hey, I'll get to add Winona and Gallup to my growing list of 'kicking '66 towns', and we'll have to stop in Winslow so I can have you take a picture of me '_Standing on a corner in Winslow, Arizona_," John sang in a key Steve hadn't ever heard before. Still, John's enthusiasm was irresistible.

He added the next line of the song correcting the pitch somewhat. "_Such a fine sight to see." _

_"It's a girl, my Lord, in a flat-bed Ford, slowin' down to take a look at me." *** _They finished together - in leaning support, trying to catch their laugh-stolen breaths. "Chad" (if one could trust the label on the back of the mechanic's overalls) peered over his glasses and unamused at their antics.

"I guess he's heard the song before," John squeaked out as he managing a staggering retreat to the side of the Rover.

"Get in, you goof, before a cop stops and makes us take a sobriety test."

"Chad's probably just sore that Flagstaff didn't get an Eagle's hit song," John theorized before obeying by climbing into the driver's seat.

"I'm paying for gas and lunch," Steve informed his friend as he opened the passenger door.

* * *

The trip was uneventful. They captured John's 'Winslow photo', and stopped for lunch in the tiny town of Jagged Rock, a blip on the map named for the pillar formation ten miles to the north.

John perked up at Steve's description of the rock. "Have you ever climbed it?"

"Sure, a couple of times but stop drooling over rocks; we don't have time to have a go at them right now. Drool over the pretty bartender instead."

John's head swiveled of its own volition. "See, I told you there'd be plenty of worthwhile sights out in your neck of the woods."

* * *

John called Roy from Steve's house in Gallup to let him know of his latest change in plans.

"Maybe I'll back-track a bit on Sunday and take a side trip to that crater south of Winslow. Steve tells me the Apollo astronauts trained in it." John watched as Amy, Steve's wife packed a small box with peanut butter cookies.

"Sure. I'll still call you when I get in, but don't worry if it's late Monday night. I plan on taking a few other side trips and there are a few special attractions I might want to revisit on the way back to see if they are working a shift." John gave a wink of thanks to Amy as she set the cookies next to his car keys sitting on the kitchen counter.

He huffed a small laugh at whatever Roy was saying. "Yeah? So Chet got the snap shot?"

"Well, I'll see you back on shift on Tuesday, if not before then."

"Yeah, you too. You guys enjoy your four days off and tell Joanne and the kids 'hi' for me. I'll be rooting for the Rams from wherever I am Sunday afternoon."

* * *

**5**

Headed west, and back towards Flagstaff, John was making good time even though he was paying attention to the speed limit and mostly honoring it. Steve had pointed out a few small-town speed traps on their way east to Gallop and John didn't want to deal with the hassle of an out-of-state speeding ticket. The newer section of divided highway narrowed back to two lanes just east of Jagged Rock and he slowed to compensate.

Something was going on up ahead and John slowed further. A white delivery truck was sitting with its back tires on the pavement, facing west. Its crushed left front fender dangled off the road's edge; its rear jutted out into the east bound lane.

The setting sun was in John's eyes as he pulled onto the shoulder to his right. He put the Rover in park a few car lengths beyond where the disabled vehicle rested across the highway. It was supposed to drop below forty degrees in Flagstaff before morning, but the elevation was 2000 feet lower here and John estimated the temperature to still be in the low fifties as he pulled his jacket on and grabbed one of his flashlights to shove in a pocket. He reached across his driver's seat to turn the hazard lights on before crossing the road to investigate.

The driver wasn't in the cab; no one was. He reached to remove the keys and tossed them onto the bench seat. He scanned the highway stretching west before him and then rotated to face the area on his left. The shoulder of the east bound lane dropped in a steep slope before flattening six feet below the road bed. Watching for signs of the truck's occupants, John continued to turn until he saw another vehicle lying just to the right of the highway as he faced east. The white Pinto looked as if it had rolled as it continue to travel for seventy feet from where he stood by the truck. The car had come to rest on its driver's side with its hood facing the highway; the lower edge of its roof just kissed the base of the slope.

John bounced on his toes as he sized up the accident scene. Still keeping a searching eye out for its driver, he rounded the front of the truck and noted the smell of gas but had no Chet or Marco standing by ready to mitigate that situation with an inch-and-a-half. He walked backwards as he started across the highway to the Rover and bent to take a peek under what turned out to be a Wonder Bread/Hostess delivery truck.

The last of the day's light was trading places with the grey before full dark.

He grabbed flares from under the Rover's front seat as well as the blanket and first aid kit. John heartily wished for a Halligan but had to settle for the small hatchet from his camping gear. He snagged his leather belaying gloves to shove in a pocket and then re-crossed the road, arranging the lit flares in a glowing trail to the truck and then beyond as he headed back down the highway to the Pinto.

The controlled journey down to where the car lay was a short one, accomplished in a standing slide. He held his arm outstretched, hatchet brushing the slope to balance his descent through a mini avalanche of gravel. John flicked the flashlight on and began to sweep the area around him as he approached the car.

* * *

Someone, a man of average build, was standing at the front of the vehicle, facing its undercarriage. John emptied his arms and stepped into an area that he normally would avoid to snag the man's arm and tow him to a safer spot.

"Help me! There are people in there. It's gonna blow!"

"Hold on, now," John began in a steady, reassuring voice. He kept a firm grip on the forty- something-ish man in case he tried something heroic but unauthorized. There was, it seemed, a vacant incident commander's position and since John was being forced to step into those boots, he was also going to claim the right to make any further decisions regarding this accident scene - at least until other, qualified aid arrived. He positioned the flashlight to get a look at the man's face. There was blood tracing a trail from a receding hairline.

Triage began.

"Sir, were you in this car or in the truck? Can you tell me your name?"

"It's Paul; I was driving the truck... I, ah, work a route out of Phoenix."

"Here, let's sit you down. Do you hurt anywhere besides your head?" John asked as he tried to guide the man to a sitting position."

"No, just my head. I'm telling you, we've got to get these people out of there!" Paul made another move toward the vehicle.

'No, now listen, Paul. My name's John Gage, I'm a fireman/paramedic with Los Angeles County. If the car didn't go up in flames when it rolled, we probably can take some time to get the occupants out in a way that won't hurt them anymore than they already are." Paul pulled away from John's searching fingers, but even with that abbreviated exam, John could tell the bleeding had already stopped and that the laceration didn't seem all that deep. He advanced on the retreating accident victim. "Come on, now. I need you to hold still a sec, so I can take a look at your head..."

Paul, both hands raised, dodged another attempt to touch him. John gave up for the time being, not having the time to play tag with one determined-not-to-be-touched victim while other, possibly critically injured patients waited. As he turned toward the Pinto, John gathered a pair of rocks roughly the size of shoe boxes. He juggled them and the flashlight and took a step toward the car before turning back to repeat, "Were you the only person in the truck?" The man had moved to join him. "Stay here while I check this out. Paul, _were_ _you_ _the only one in that truck_?"

John caught his balance as the gravel shifted under his left boot.

"Yeah," the man retreated with the chattering shift of sharp edged rock.

John's firm command of "Wait. There. I want to see how steady it is...maybe chock it to keep it from..." was interrupted by Paul's answering argument.

"I saw someone moving in there. I bet between us, we could tip it back off its side..."

John tried to reign in his disbelief at the man's suggestion that they purposefully cause the very thing he was taking the time to prevent. He closed his eyes for a split moment to face the mental image of the car slamming back down onto all four wheels and the accompanying tossing about of the vehicle's occupants that would ensue. "Just stay put while I place these chocks. We can't move the car without risking hurting whoever's inside." He was wedging the rocks while trespassing in what he considered "no-man's land", facing the upright undercarriage of the car_. _He grabbed several more large rocks and shoved them firmly in place for what he hoped was extra insurance.

"Alright, _Mr_. _Fireman, _it's all on you, then. They die and it won't be my fault."

John didn't flinch at this comment; it was simply a paraphrasing of the responsibility he had already shouldered. "Just stay put for a bit," he told the man who now seemed willing to stand back.

Carrying the hatchet and pulling on his gloves, John approached the Pinto's front end to stand between the vehicle's now-vertical hood and the slope from the road. He chopped around the front windshield's frame and peeled the safety glass back. This process went smoother than his worst nightmare, but was no cake walk and took longer than he could have wished. _If I was going to start making wishes, I'd start with one for better lighting. No, I'd wish for any one of the guys back home... _He forced his thoughts away from _that _train and repositioned several more handy rocks to brace the uphill side of the car.

"Hey, since you're the medic, why don't I take your rig and go for help? Somebody's going to have to, and you need to stay here and help them," Paul called from where he stood. For some reason, this second suggestion ranked only slightly lower than the first on the scale of negative reactions pinging around in John's brain. John chose to ignore it and gave the car's frame an experimental tug. After leaning into it slightly, he was satisfied that his shoring job had as good a chance of holding as any he had time and resources to create. He dropped to his knees and under the glare of his flashlight got his first clear look at the interior of the Pinto.

The man lying against the open driver's side window was dead. Obviously and irreversibly beyond any aid any human, anywhere could offer him.

A woman was draped over his body, facing upward, her legs disappearing under the dash.

With a gloved, sweeping hand he dislodged what he could of the remaining fragments of glass that still rimmed the front windshield opening. Removing his gloves and stowing them back in a jacket pocket, he propped the flash light at the best angle he could manage.

"Paul, could you hold the light while I get a look at her?"

"Hey, somebody's coming," Paul announced from where he stood. Other than delivering that bit of welcome news, Paul seemed to have signed himself off of the case.

John was going to have to trust the man on that one, because he himself was in no position to check. He leaned to reach for a carotid pulse. _Got it. _He put it at near ninety, and a little on the weak side. John ran his fingers lightly behind the back of her neck and held C-spine with one hand as he squirmed further into the car to check the vertebrae down her back. "Paul," he called, "I could really use a hand. Could you bring the first aid kit?"

John was more than a little interested in the possibility of someone who could go for help. He'd been dreading the looming decision of whether or not to let Paul go in the Rover; there was just something hinky about the man. He held his breath hoping whoever was driving by during "dinner hour" would stop as he brought his bare hand up to hold pressure on the jagged head wound that was bleeding enough to drip.

Two people came scrambling down the slope, and John was not only relieved to hear them, but grateful they chose to descend several yards further down the road from where the Pinto lay. Their flashlights were what made it possible for him to track their progress through the moonless night.

"Hey man, can we help?" One of them asked as they approached. _Teenage boy, _John thought.

Paul met them before they reached the car.

"Yeah, we've got an injured woman here. She's hurt bad. Can I borrow your car to go get help?" Paul asked.

From inside the car, John's head snapped up. "Hold on guys," he called. "I could really use a hand over here." John wasn't lying, he was really hampered by having to assess this victim and maneuver his flashlight at the same time. But more than longing for an extra pair of hands, when someone did finally go for help, he wanted to be able to trust that that person would follow through. This was a lonely stretch of the highway and he was afraid it might be awhile before another car happened along.

John twisted his head over his shoulder sighting across his body to where he could feel as much as see someone kneel behind his protruding lower half. Another form joined the first. "Okay, guys. Here's the deal," John said in a low voice. "I need someone to go for help and I need it to be one of the two of you because Paul, the man you just talked to, has a head injury and shouldn't drive." John thought that was clear enough without vilifying the man, who, after all _did_ have a head laceration. "I need the other one to stay and lend a hand if you can."

"It'll have to be Tony that goes; I won't get my driver's license 'til next month."

"Okay, Tony. You're up. Get to the nearest phone and dial the operator. Tell her there's a two vehicle accident a couple of miles east of town. One rollover, a fatality and two other victims, one of them seriously injured. Hurry, but drive safely. Go now." John felt the gravel under his right hip shift a bit as one of the boys stood and started to scramble up the slope.

"So, my name's Johnny. What's yours?" John was twisting at an unlikely angle to keep pressure on a head wound, maintain C-spine precautions and continue an assessment in the dark.

"Jake," the boy answered. John actually heard the gulping swallow the boy took before he asked, "What do you need me to do?"

"Jake, I want you to hold your flashlight so I can see this head wound. Can you bring that first aid kit closer? Yeah, that's good." John dug one-handed in the kit for a dressing and applied it with his left hand as he moved his right over the victim's body. _Left clavicle, shoulder... one, two, three ribs. _His hand stopped when it encounter the wet, torn fabric covering her left leg. "Jake, I'm going to need you to hold her head...here, like this. And Jake," John paused to make sure he had the teenager's full attention. "If this car moves at all while you're holding this, I want _you_ to move back and up the hill. Up and away from the car. You got that?" John saw that he needn't have worried about having the boy's undivided attention.

Two eyes glinted in the extended illumination outside of the main beam of the flashlight, each stoically locked on the paramedic's face. Jake gave a silent jerk of his chin which John would accept as an affirmative response. It didn't take a rocket scientist to calculate from what, or whom, Jake was averting his gaze. "You're doing great, pal." In a carefully modulated, conversational voice John said, "She's losing a lot of blood." _Too much blood and not the strongest of pulses. _He arched to free his belt and with some more contortions on his part, got it wrapped around her thigh.

She moaned and he moved back to her head. "Hey there, try not to move. I'm John, my pal Jake here is going to be holding your head while I see about getting your legs free. Hang on, okay?" John shortly discovered she had no choice in that matter, seeing as how her legs were stuck tight. _Damnit_. John sighed in frustration, achingly aware of the gravity of her situation. Without access to the tools of his trade, she was going to be waiting for an EMS response greater than that of one off-duty paramedic and his newly deputized, scared-spitless trainee before she saw the exterior of her car again. He moved back up, checking the tourniquet on the way. Her eyes were open. "Hi there, can you tell me your name?"

"Vickie" was the weak response.

"Okay, Vickie, help is on the way. "Jake, you doing alright holding that? See if you can keep her talking, but keep her _calm." _ John reached for the flashlight, even as he realized he was asking a lot of a fifteen year old kid. He took a moment to sweep the back seat and the interior of the car with the beam and a searching gaze.

Jake's face was set in grim lines of stress, but he gave another quick nod of understanding. "So, ah, Vickie, you live around Jagged Rock?"

John patted the boy on the shoulder as he slid past him between the car and the slope. "Jake, you make sure you remember what I said. If this car even hints that it's going to move, _you move_. I think that it's pretty stable, but make sure you stay on this uphill side at all times. Call if anything changes. I'm gonna go grab a blanket and check on old Paul."

Just before he reached the spot where he'd left the blanket, an anguished wail came from the interior of the Pinto. John stooped to snag the blanket before approaching the truck driver who was pacing in a small circle a few feet away. "How's it going, there, Paul? Are you sure you don't want to sit down?"

"_No_, I 'don't want to sit down'. I'm freezing my ass off. It's gettin' cold out here."

Paul was right on that score, John judged the temperature had dropped into the forties.

He whirled at the second scream. He could hear Vickie's cries over Jake's pleas that she try to hold still. "Paul, just stay close, okay?" John nurtured no illusions that this man was at all inclined to obey him.

There was no calming the trapped woman. John was fairly certain she hadn't realized that she was lying across a body. He sure as hell wasn't going to quiz her on who that person might be to her. There was also no need to play twenty questions as to whether she had a daughter and what that daughter's name might be.

"Tammy Sue? Is she alright? Where is she?"

John was maneuvering past Jake and crawling further in through the windshield before she finished her last question.

"You've got to get my baby! Tammy Sue! She was asleep in the back seat!" The woman was not going anywhere, but it was all the teenager could do to keep her from trying.

"Vickie, hold still now and I'll check again." John braced an arm to support his weight as he contorted to keep from jarring or hurting the patient he was stretching over to inspect the interior of the car more closely. "She's not in this car," he called as he twisted and turned and arched back out until he could face the trapped woman again.

"Vickie?" John's hand reached for a carotid because his patient didn't respond.

He should stay with her. This victim in front of him _needed_ him to stay with her. Hell, even Paul should have been even assessed and on his way to a hospital by now. In spite of the truck driver's initial stubbornness, John was fairly certain he could have gotten him to submit to an exam. It was the rare victim that, given enough time, John couldn't convince to allow him to care for them, especially if he felt they really needed treatment. Both victims' "platinum ten minutes", from the time "aid" arrived on scene to the time they were packaged, loaded, and an ambulance's wheels rolled, had long expired. He should, he should...he made a deal with himself and an unconscious mother. If she would just hold on, he would look for Tammy Sue.

He set out to search for a child, realizing that a "baby" in mom vernacular - particularly frantic-motherese - could describe a newborn right up to, and past the teen years.

He was very, very sure that this was not covered in Triage 101, not in the orange EMS manual and not in the pristine, controlled environment of paramedic school. He'd been a paramedic for years now, but he'd never gotten to the point of being able to take in stride the occassional, bitter necessity of choosing between patients.

And yet he swept his flashlight and took that stride out into the pitch black of night stretched to infinity with no illuminative help from nonexistent lamps along this godforsaken stretch of highway. Shit, but this was one lonely, unpopulated corner of the universe. _This is the crew mate on vacation alone, __that left one victim to die and another to roam._

John shook his head wishing Chet hadn't started the game of expanding C-shift's wallpapered prose. He shook it again to clear his mind's whispered offering and continued his search at the rear of the Pinto. "Tammy Sue!" he called as he angled his way up the slope. He made a quick, calculated guess at the car's probable path as it left the highway.

He swept the slope and the road and its shoulder, looking for, dreading to find a small body. _How far from a moving, rolling vehicle - 50 feet? More?_ He slid back down the slope, and turned to work his way back towards the car. "Tammy Sue?" In the illumination of his sweeping flashlight beam, he located a Kleenex box, a magazine... and left them in place. A Pinocchio coloring book that lay open with finished art work narrowed the age of the child he was searching for to somewhere between "old enough to hold a crayon" and "too young to be at all concerned about staying within the lines". Something already coiling in his gut tightened just a bit more at the building composite image of the person he was searching for.

The beam of his flashlight skittered across a body of water and the tension on that spring increased. _A lake? Reservoir?_ The glint off to his right was maybe two hundred feet from the highway. _Could the girl have been thrown that distance? _No, but any toddler worth their salt and unharmed - which is what he/they all were praying for - could motate that far - downhill and unencumbered by supervision.

"Tammy Sue?"

John continued to sweep the area with his flashlight, and...

... stepped unevenly. He started to fall, but with a twist, he managed to turn a headlong plunge into a bounce and a skid. He ended his short slide abruptly, mostly standing, in knee-deep water.

Searching hands brushed the cement side of what John guessed must be an irrigation or drainage ditch. He swallowed the shout of frustration, the building _anger _of discovering yet another hazard for the young child. He _hated _that this ditch defined the boundary as to how far they would be searching as he played the flashlight up and down the channeled, dark surface. John found himself pausing to listen for splashing, even knowing that if the child was in the ditch, she was most likely under that glassy surface and that the chances of him finding her at all, let alone in time, were crushingly against him. Still, he paced and sloshed the length of the ditch one hundred feet in each direction from where the car now rested; an arbitrary distance at best, and not enough, not enough. A sound escaped from somewhere deep in his chest.

He was panting more from frustration and building despair than from the exertion of climbing out of the water. He had to force himself to move deliberately as he began a grid search of the area below the car. He could be all but stepping on her in the dark and miss her just as thoroughly as if she had toddled her way into the irrigation ditch. With a deep breath, he paused for a second to redirect his thoughts.

It was past time to check on Vicky again. He turned, and his beam fell on a dark mound fifteen feet behind the car. Some not-mentioned-in-the-paramedic-texts organ lodged in his throat as he hurried towards the still form. It was a large stuffed animal, which John recognized as a well loved rabbit before he turned it over. It might have had plush fur at one time, but now lay starkly bare in the beam of his flash light, possessing weave as open as a burlap sack. He tucked it into his jacket, not pausing to visit the reasoning behind the action. He allowed another fruitless and jaw grinding sweep of the area around the rabbit's landing zone, then continued back to the car to check on Vickie. The guilt he felt at feeling relieved when he didn't have to explain to the still-unconscious mom that he had failed was matched only by that of the failure itself.

He found her where he had left her in the care of one cold, terrified teenager. Her blood pressure had dropped from a palpable femoral to a thready carotid. John almost whirled away in frustration. He forced himself to calm, to check the tourniquet and the head wound, all the while trying to gauge the status of Jake. _Holding up? Check. Warm enough? Passably._ Haunted eyes met his in question; he answered with a silent shake of his head.

He turned to look for Paul-the-Neglected and ran smack into him before the man grabbed him roughly by a shoulder.

"I'm going to go look for that little girl myself. She's got to be somewhere close by."

"Hold on," John started; thinking all he needed was to have Paul fall in the darkness or somehow find a way to be further injured.

"No, _you_ hold on. You might be ready to give up, but I'm not. That gal begged you to find her baby. Who put you in charge anyway?" The man gave John a shove before whirling off to start up the incline behind the Pinto.

"Jake, you okay to stay with her a bit longer?"

"Sure, I can keep holding her head and I'll call if I need you."

"Atta Boy," John told the teen who seemed willing to kneel where he was until hell, or his knee caps, froze solid. He suspected Jake was pulling strength from unplumbed depths, but the kid had been a godsend who hadn't wavered in the face of the gruesome situation he'd stepped into.

He moved stiffly to follow Paul, not entirely due to the stiffness of wet jeans and numb legs, nor due to the bruise he envisioned blooming over his left hip from his trip over the cement lip of that ditch, but from the cold weariness of knowing he was failing on not one, but on at least two fronts of this battlefield.

The woman in the car was slipping further into shock, the teen in his charge was getting cold, John himself was shivering, the child was still missing, and he had no idea where Paul had taken himself off to. _Make that all fronts. __This is the link that failed them all: __parents and toddler, Jake and Paul._

He was grateful beyond measure when he heard sirens before he reached the shoulder of the road.

* * *

It took John and the members of the Jagged Rock Volunteer Fire Department just over fifteen minutes to extricate Vicky. They had her loaded into the back of the ambulance and almost ready to roll, Jake was getting warm in the back of a patrol car, and several members of the sheriff's department and the balance of the rescue response were scouring the area for both Tammy Sue and Paul, who had gone missing _again._

The plan was for John to ride along with the EMT as an extra set of hands; he would worry about the Rover later. He scanned the accident scene one last time, rounding the front of the ambulance parked behind the delivery truck. He was more than a little concerned that they hadn't located Paul. John was still trying to decide if the man was just a garden variety asshole, a criminal-on-the-run as he suspected or an atypical presentation of a head injury. That last possibility worried him a bit, not that he'd had the time or resources to properly woo, examine and treat an unwilling, uncooperative patient.

Paul himself cleared the matter up some when the rear doors of the delivery truck flew open, thwaking John on the back of his head. The man landed squarely on top of John, climbed over the downed paramedic and scrambled to his feet. This was when John felt his knee twist at a painful angle.

It all became even a little clearer when Paul took off at a dead run cross-country, getting a jump on the law enforcement officers present and taking an early lead.

From John's perspective, it became _much_ clearer the moment Paul used his head as a starting block. It was, John decided as he closed his eyes against the spray of dirt and gravel, quite possible to be a criminal, a patient and an asshole, all at the same time.

* * *

He closed his eyes in shivering exhaustion and tried to ignore the throb of a head-turned-traction-device. _How the hell did I lose the '"full c-spine precautions/no c-spine precautions" debate? _John wondered from where he lay, knowing the answer was framed by his unwillingness to distract the EMTs' attention from Vickie any more than absolutely necessary with an extended argument over protocols.

He shifted within the confines of the straps, trying to get comfortable on the bench in the back of the ambulance. He tried to distract himself by hoping An-Asshole-Named-Paul was every bit as miserable as he himself was right now. If John had been in a charitable mood, he might have been satisfied with the fact that Paul had seemed less than comfortable the last time he had seen him, what with being hand-cuffed and all. He'd also looked a little more ragged around the edges than he had before his mad dash and subsequent apprehension. _Resisting arrest could do that - muss up even the most fastidious of folks._

John was working on supposition here, having no personal experience with that genre of hairstylist. Said stylist being the "officer" that had done the actual apprehending. Too bad Ajax was too well-trained to eat a prisoner.

The only hint of fairness to the situation came when John was being loaded into the back of the ambulance. Jake had leaned in to say goodbye and to give him an update on Paul. It seemed that the truck driver was more than a little allergic to the beast still guarding him. Not only was he sporting red, swollen eyes, but every few minutes he sneezed volcanically three times in succession. The vigilant dog's hackles rose with each eruption.

As far as John was concerned An-Asshole-Named-Paul deserved to be uncomfortable. Of the many and varied ways that the man had earned this final "in-the-mind-of-Gage" moniker, the most damning was that he had compromised a patient's care.

John had been demoted from "riding along as an unofficial extra set of hands", to "a second patient needing transport." This meant a delay while one of the two EMTs did a quick assessment and got him strapped to a second backboard. He hoped the dog's prisoner sneezed until his sinuses bled. Not only did John's head hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but the EMT in the back of the ambulance was now dividing his attention between two patients.

John shifted again and tried not to draw attention away from Vickie. _At least the back of the ambulance was heated._

* * *

**6**

When eight o'clock rolled by without a call from John, Steve himself started making calls. He reached Roy at home, who wasted no time in getting hold of Captain Stanley. Between the department resources at their disposal in both Carson and Gallup, it had not taken long to gather the bare details of the accident. By nine o'clock they knew, at least, that John had not been injured or even involved in the original accident, but had somehow managed to _become_ injured at the scene and was being transported to Flagstaff. Plans were forming immediately as to who else would be headed for John's city of seven wonders. Sometime after the rest of A-shift was brought up to speed, but before all five firemen decided to head out, they got word that John's injuries were limited to a minor concussion, a twisted knee and a bruised hip. The response level was ratcheted down several notches and Cap managed to convinced Mike, Marco and Chet that he and Roy could handle getting both friend and Rover home after an expected discharge on Sunday. They left an agitated, agitating group of concerned co-workers in Carson at the mid-October pre-predawn hour of 0430. They had all given up trying for a full night of sleep.

* * *

Early Saturday afternoon, John woke to a neuro check, a captain and a best friend. To both a captain and best friend's discerning eyes, the man lying before them was still several percentage points shy of a passing grade. They exchanged glances, and waited to see if he would immediately slide back to sleep as he had an hour ago, or if this time some level of lucidity would take hold for a bit.

"Vickie Hanie, how is she? I lost track of her after we reached the hospital."

Roy turned the volume on the television down. "She was stabilized last night and then transported by fixed wing to Phoenix. Her final tally is a concussion, a broken left shoulder and collarbone, three broken ribs, a broken ankle and the deeply lacerated thigh. Last word we had, she'd just come out of surgery. The jury's still out on whether she'll keep the leg."

As far as juries went, there was another one also still in session as to whether or not a certain paramedic would make his predicted "pull date" of Sunday morning.

"Paul Sullivan had a shorter trip last night than you and Vickie. He came away with a minor head laceration and a court date. He's cooling his heels in the county jail back in Holbrook." Cap picked up the baton of bringing Johnny up to speed on the chaotic aftermath of last night's adventure in the face of what, the doctor here assured his patient's friends, were normal responses of a body dealing from not only the slight concussion, but also exhaustion and the lingering effects of "nearly freezing its ass off in a ditch on the other side of nowhere." Cap had almost caused Roy to snort in the presence of this doc when Hank had added a barely audible aside of "Flagstaff serving as the actual 'nowhere' in point of reference."

'What'd they charge him with?" John shifted and forced his eyes to remain open.

"Well, it seems his truck had been mislabeled. A more accurate bill of lading would have included the bricks of cocaine tucked between the Ding Dongs and Twinkies. I guess his boss is suitably appalled," Hank supplied.

John didn't miss the look that passed between his two incident reporters and he consciously steeled himself.

Roy took a deep breath, met his partner's eyes and plowed ahead. "John, the coroner stated in his initial report that Mr. Hanie died instantly of a massive head injury."

John took this news calmly, since he had seen the mechanism of injury first hand. He hadn't been the only one. "Jake, the teenager who help out at the scene... have you heard how he's handling it all?"

Roy continued, with an eye to his partner's reactions. His friend was alternating between subjecting the call-bell cord to a fidgety-twisting and a rapid swing of his right foot beneath the hospital-grade blanket. Balancing the otherwise frenetic show were John's increasingly less-than-successful efforts to keep his eyes open. Roy would have smiled at the effect, except for his partner's distress. "He called this morning to check on you, 'said he'd try again later." Roy waited a second, wondering if John was going lose his battle to stay awake before he could to put voice to the looming elephant of a question hanging in the air.

Cap placed a hand on his junior paramedic's shoulder and with a small smile took up the report again. "John, she's fine..." Hank noted that he had the man's full attention; the metal bedrail that had picked up the frequency of John's foot-swing stilled. "They finally got hold of the family earlier this morning. Tammy Sue was never even in that car last night. She'd been safely tucked in bed the whole time. Her aunt was watching her for the weekend here in Flagstaff." Roy and Hank waited for John to digest this unexpected bit of news.

Johnny started to ask something, and then reconsidered. He closed his briefly hanging mouth, thought for a moment and tried again only to hesitate once more. Finally, trusting that his friends would understand, he simply matched Cap's smile with a crooked one of his own, closed his eyes on a sigh and drifted back to sleep.

* * *

He woke again at the end of the third quarter of the LA/Chicago game. "Aw, man, you guys are missing the game!"

"No we're not, we lucked out. It's being sent in living color for our viewing entertainment by KPHO, the CBS affiliate out of Phoenix," Roy said from his perch in the deep window sill to the left of John's hospital bed. "We get to watch it in the climate controlled comfort of your hospital room with 'room service' no less." Roy raised a cup of kindly-nurse-supplied coffee in demonstration. "We were promised ice-cream cups if the Rams win."

Right on cue, a nurse popped in to check on her patient. Cap stood and moved to the foot of the bed to give her better access. "It's good to see you awake, Mr. Gage," she said with a warm smile. She took his wrist for a pulse, so John waited for a moment before turning on the charm.

When she set his wrist down, the dance began, even though she was clearly in her mid-to-late forties and wearing a wedding ring. Roy and Cap each raised their estimation of John's condition a few points. It seemed their boy might indeed rally; he'd naturally fallen into his easy way with women, especially those not of his generation.

By the time she had finished vitals and plumped his pillow, he had wrangled a milkshake and a pair of Tylenol 3's in lieu of the injectable pain med she first offered. The entire population of the room realized what John was shooting for, knowing full well that an I.V.'d paramedic was a hospitalized paramedic.

The three settled in to watch the end of the game and enjoyed ice cream and milkshake and pain pills in celebration.

Johnny's nurse shooed Cap and Roy out and the two went in search of an early dinner at the Crown Railroad Cafe further east on Route 66 at John's envious recommendation. His Gage charm had failed to cage him an upgrade in hospital cuisine from "soft diet". They were staying at a little motel nestled in the pines just off the highway. Roy had high hopes that this meant they wouldn't be sharing a room with any of the ghosts that John seemed to consider such an added value at the Weatherford.

Before he followed their captain out into the hallway, Roy paused in the doorway. "Don't let your pain get away from you, Junior. Playing catch-up won't do anything but hurt and set you back further than if you'd stayed on top of it."

"I know that, go away and enjoy your dinner. I'm sure I'll be having something perfectly lovely." John changed his disgruntled tone to something softer. "Stop worrying. I'll see you in the morning." Roy thought John was resigned to his current dietary restrictions, until his partner called from his bed, "Hey, Roy, bring me some real breakfast if you think of it."

* * *

John finally felt as if he was beginning to thaw sometime after his second cup of coffee Sunday morning, especially after Saturday's stood-up climbing buddies dropped by for a brief visit. Roy and Cap showed up and the ladies relinquished their seats and made their goodbyes.

"Well, I'm off guys," Cap announced as he unfolded his frame from the chair at John's bedside. "You two take it slow. I should be getting home around about dinner time. I'll leave a message at the hotel in Needles you're staying at when I get in. We'll get the vehicles shuffled back around before John's cleared to drive and come back to work."

"Wait, wait. You mean I have to get cleared to return to work? This wasn't an on-the-job injury, and I shouldn't need to use enough sick time to need a doctor's release."

Hank watched the belligerent arguments brew and foment as his junior paramedic started to wind up. He waited for a break in the sputtering. "Why yes, John, that is exactly what I mean. A hospital admission, a knee that bears watching and my say-so all add up to Bracket or Early, or Morton if you prefer, needing to be involved. Rank and privilege, John; rank and privilege."

* * *

Steve dropped by for a visit and to deliver the keys to the Rover, which Johnny had left with the County Sheriff so it could be moved off the highway. He was picking up his truck from their buddy Chad anyway, so the trip from Gallup had already been in the works. This way, Amy just dropped her husband off in Holbrook, turned around and returned home while Steve continued on to Flagstaff in the Rover.

* * *

John and Roy headed slowly toward the small conference room at the end of the hall.

"Hold up, Roy. I need to lengthen these things; they're about two notches too short."

Roy waited patiently while John took several minutes to adjust the crutches. Crutches that, in his estimation, ended up the same exact length they'd been before Johnny stopped to fiddle with them.

"It'll be okay, John. They just want to thank you before they drive down to Phoenix to be with Mrs. Hanie."

"Yeah, I rescued a thread-bare bunny rabbit," John muttered, indicating the stuffed animal tucked under his right arm.

"Look, I mean it. I talked to them earlier this morning. Her parents drove down yesterday. It's just the aunt, her husband and little Tammy Sue." They realize what you managed to do under less-than-ideal circumstances. You saved a life the other night, John. Not the one beyond help, and not one that didn't need saving, but Vickie is alive today because you were there.

From down the corridor a squeal of delight was followed by the soft patter of small shoes.

John pivoted on a crutch just as someone reached him, arms raised toward a ratty, floppy bunny sporting a bright new ribbon.

* * *

Half an hour later John was signing his discharge papers.

"Come on, Junior, time to bust you out of here. I'm sorry you didn't get all the climbing in you wanted, but we should have time to take a peek at the Grand Canyon caverns. I have it on good authority that they are over 200 feet deep. With the help of their handy elevator, your knee should be able to hold up just fine, and it'll be a chance to get out and stretch for a bit."

Roy was pacing his stride to keep Johnny from swinging down the hall at the reckless speed that reflected his undisguised opinion of being a patient in a hospital.

John stopped and turned to wait for his slower-than-erosion partner. "Hey, 'think we could have dinner at the Hungry Bear in Needles? It's got a neat little gift shop where we can get souvenirs for your kids."

John had to turn back a second time when his partner came to a full stop, giving him a knowing look. "What? Can I help it if they make a tasty bowl of chowder?" John's hand was on his chest in an earnest gesture, but his facial features broke rank. "The service is exemplary, and Roy, you won't believe the scenery you can find out on the desert if you know where to look."

* * *

_This? Well, this is a link who can stand on his own,_

_But prefers to be standing with five links at home._

* * *

...

*Roy called that one right. In 1983, Cynthia (Fralick) Barbee became LA County Fire Department's first female recruit. She later became a paramedic and by the time she retired as a captain 27 years later, there were 33 female firefighters on the force. Little Daphne could have grown up to be one of these women. Whether she did or not, I bet her brothers had their work cut out for them trying to keep up with her.

**Chet was also having a moment of clairvoyance. Originally, _optimistically_ slated to be finished in 1972, the final segments of Interstate 40 weren't laid until 1984.

***From _Take It Easy_, off The Eagles' 1972 Debut Album, written by Jackson Browne and Glen Frey

A/N: C-shift's opening parody is one of an old English nursery rhyme, _The House that Jack Built, _perhaps first published in _Nurse Truelove's New-Year's-Gift or the Book of Books for Children _in London in 1755.

The song _Get Your Kicks on Route 66_ turned 66 years old in 2012 during the writing of this story. (Now, how cool is _that_?) Nat King Cole recorded it first in 1946. Bobby Troup's cover of his own song stands solidly amongst those of the many artists who later recorded it. Chuck Berry, the Rolling Stones, and more recently, John Mayer... yeah, some were cool and iconic and all, but Johnny's right, Bobby Troup _owned_ it.

P.S. Five rug rats this go 'round... a veritable population explosion.


	5. At This Canny Leap

Anagrams Run Through it All

(Shall Hunt a Roaming Rug Rat)

At This Canny Leap

(Captain H. Stanley)

Cap is in charge. Emergency! still doesn't belong to me, Enfleurage is still being über patient as she continues at her post as Beta, there are still anagrams and kids are still roaming the greater Carson area.

...

* * *

"Proverbs often contradict one another, as any reader soon discovers. The sagacity that advises us to look before we leap promptly warns us that if we hesitate we are lost..." -Leo Rosten 1908 -1997

* * *

**...**

**1**

Saturday, October 2

_Station 51, respond to man trapped at Carriage Crest Park, 23868 Figueroa Street, two-three-eight-six-eight Figueroa, cross street Sepulveda Boulevard, time out 0735._

"We'll take it, Hook**," **Captain Stanley told C-shift's captain as he set his coffee mug down. "My guys are all here, and yours might as well start their one day off on time."

Captain Hookrader lifted his own mug in thanks as the other captain strode out of the office. Both crews met the captain of A-shift on the apparatus floor; his own having already guessed that this run would be their's.

The men of C-shift made their way back to doughnuts and coffee and plans for the day as the squad and engine pulled into traffic.

* * *

"Try lifting him more," Marco grunted from where he was tugging at the nineteen-year-old. His arms passed under the kid's armpits and across his chest.

"I _am _lifting!" came Chet's emphatic declaration through gritted teeth as he raised the pair of knees he held a bit higher.

"Here, shift over, Chet, I'll take this side." Roy got a grip on the boy's belt and put one arm under his right knee as Chet moved to do the same from the other side. "Maybe if we tip him upside down..." Roy started to suggest.

"Ugh! Man, what _is_ this stuff all over the seat?" John asked, pulling his hand away from prying at the baby swing and glaring at it and his hand in disgust.

"It's just cooking oil," Troy, the swing's prisoner, answered. "I used it so I would slide in better. Could you just get me outta this thing? I've been hanging here for two hours now, and my legs are starting to go numb. I think they're starting to swell too."

"I hope he at least collected on that bet," Hank said to no one in particular from where he stood off to the side with the groundskeeper who had summoned the fire department. Mike trotted up with the bolt cutters and a tarp. "Thanks, Mike, it looks like he's stuck tight. He's probably been hanging there long enough. Go ahead and cut him down."

Once gravity was no longer working against them, the firemen made quick work of liberating Troy from his toddler-sized torture device. Although flesh and rubber came apart intact, a pair of corn oil-slicked and muddied corduroys might never be the same.

During a brief conversation with Dr. Early over the BioPhone, it was decided that the victim could be released on his own reconnaissance as long as he promised to see a doctor if the numbness and swelling didn't reduce by the next day. Troy didn't join the ring of good-natured smiles his rescuers wore after the Doc's final transmission, "51, tell the victim to refrain from swinging for a few days, and after that he should consider graduating to the strap swings designed for bigger backsides."

Roy walked the stiff-but-ambulatory Troy to his car, leaving the rest of the crew to deal with clean up and his captain to deal with a disgruntled Jack-the-groundskeeper. Jack was going to have to replace the cut chains since the ones the firemen had left dangling were now too short.

* * *

"Tax payers' money don't grow on trees, you know. You'd think a _college _student would'a figured out how to use the grey stuff that the good Lord Himself placed between a pair of dang-fool ears by now." Jack gestured with an emphatic shake of the disconnected baby swing he now carried. The remaining crew refrained from mentioning the going rate for a full fire company's response; Jack seemed plenty riled without that added bit of fuel as he stomped off to get a new set of chains and a ladder.

Mike and Captain Stanley each grabbed a piece of equipment and followed a few paces behind the still muttering man until he headed towards the Parks and Rec truck sitting off by itself in the parking lot.

"It looks like he doesn't keep a ladder with him. Should we offer to loan him one off the engine?" Mike asked.

Hank gave the suggestion some consideration. "No, I'll bet he doesn't have spare chain either and he could probably use the drive to cool down. We need to get the rigs back in service." They stopped to drop off the medical equipment beside the squad where Roy was now standing.

"You'd think that a college freshman _would_ have graduated to big-boy toys by now," Marco commented, as he too, paused on his way to the engine. He had been close on his shift mates' heels carrying the bolt cutters and the tarp.

Mike handed the BioPhone to Roy who was stashing gear in various side compartments of the squad. "You'd think that a college student's _friends _would have hung around to help him get unstuck after the fun was over, not leave him in hopes that the whole neighborhood would see him dangling there."

"_Es difícil imaginar_ a grown kid trying something so potentially embarrassing over a two dollar bet," Marco said over his shoulder as he continued on to the engine that was parked a few yards behind the squad.

Cap's response of, "No, pal, it's not hard at all to imagine certain people operating without a lick of common sense," followed by Mike's "Looks like they took Dr. Early's prescription for big asses to heart," had Marco turning back around in question. His eyes widened. "_Hijole_, if Jack was watching, he'd be having kittens. They're going to break a piece of the tax payers' playground equipment for sure."

Chet and John had commandeered two of the strap swings. The swing set was bucking and lifting an occasional leg in stomping protest as two over-grown kids pumped to greater heights in obvious competition.

"Marco, leave those," Hank ordered, indicating the items his non-swinging lineman held, "and go back and tell those two to stop messing around and bring the rest of the equipment, pronto." As Marco trotted off to deliver that message, Hank added the bolt cutters to what he already carried and started toward the engine. Something made him turn in time to catch John's showy dismount; it might have been the swift intake of breath from the paramedic standing next to the squad.

"I'm gonna kill him," Roy muttered as they watched John's body launch from high in the swing's arching path. He landed on both feet but had to take several stumbling steps in a momentum-swallowing run-out. Since he remained standing, Roy turned back to the squad's side. "What were you saying about common sense, Cap?" he asked before slamming a metal compartment door. He leaned on the squad's hood as his captain strode to meet Johnny and the two linemen who were finally headed back to the rigs.

"In about ten second's, he's going to be sorry he didn't land in the next county and keep on running." Mike commented, easily interpreting the irritation radiating from the man he'd joined beside the squad.

* * *

"...Nah, Gage, that was a full point deduction when you failed to stick your landing," Chet argued.

"Uh-oh, now you're in for it," Marco interrupted the disagreement over the score John's recent flight would have garnered during the Summer Olympics last July in Montreal. All three firemen stopped in their tracks as a glowering captain approached.

A no-argument, "Kelly, Lopez, I'll see you back at the rig," separated mere witnesses from the actual epicenter of Hank's irritation. Once he had that individual reasonably isolated, he began, in as _reasonable_ a tone as he thought the situation warranted. "WHAT THE HELL, Gage?" He took a deep breath, forcing himself to follow his own rule about not reprimanding his men publicly. He kept walking, trusting that his junior paramedic would be wise enough to follow and keep pace. He halted back at the scene of the crime and considered the still swaying seat. _Only John Gage could put his own ass in a sling by jumping out of one._ John, showing more sense than he had recently displayed, remained standing at a respectful near-attention.

"Gage, that was an idiotic stunt you just pulled. I thought you _knew better_. And while on duty? Good Lord, you're a paramedic; you _know _how dangerous a fall like that can be."

Hank was glad once again that his paramedic demonstrated some degree of a sense of self-preservation, because although John offered no comment, his captain thought he could detect evidence of several rebuttals just boiling to be released. He held up a reinforcing hand to help the struggling man hold his tongue. "Not yet, John, I'm not quite finished. I shouldn't have to say this over something as frivolous as ..." John's captain made an at-a-loss-for-words sweeping arm motion that encompassed the swing set, the general height and breadth of a paramedic's recent trajectory and, _thank the Lord,_ safe landing. "... but John, that amount of needless recklessness on the job really disappoints me."

Hank knew he had connected with that last stinging statement; he'd meant to strike a nerve. The man before him might have been braced to absorb a physical blow judging by how rigid he now stood. Steeling his own self against the look of true regret he read in John's eyes, he let that pain settle for a moment before launching into the second phase of any truly useful correction.

"What _were_ you thinking?" He started to head back to the rigs, again assuming a still silent paramedic would join him. "You didn't give a thought to how much hassle it would cause me if you broke your damned neck, _did_ you?" he asked in a quieter, less intense voice.

A relieved, apologetic smile flashed across John's face. He reached a hand to rub the back of the neck in question. "No, Cap. I can't say that I gave that much of a thought. I guess I didn't really think of anything at all when I jumped; it just came as second nature. We used to do it all the time when I was growing up. Sorry, if I gave you a scare."

"It wasn't only me; you're probably the number one cause of Roy's receding hairline." Hank stopped for a moment to be serious again and bring home one final point. "John, that just wasn't a good example to set for the public. This morning's swing-related response was enough to last us awhile; I'd hate to be back here tending to any copy-cat performances of your playground vault."

John smiled, realizing his captain had recognized the same parallels between the athletic events he and Chet had just been discussing. He turned with a scanning look of mock-disbelief to take in the deserted nature of the playground at this early hour. Not even the groundskeeper was in view. Hank's eyes narrowed in a warning which, of course, went right over John's head. The paramedic, who in actuality _rarely _disappointed his captain protested in a tone that held enough mischief to keep it from straying towards disrespect. "What? I'm going to be a bad influence on the _squirrels?" _

Hank took the comment as the playful rejoinder it was meant to be and responded with an equally lighthearted, "It should be as simple as 'you jump when I say jump, but not until I say so', kapeesh? Now stop messing around and get your rear end into that squad before I decide to chew on it some more."

"But, Cap..."

A raised eyebrow signaled a captain's opinion that the conversation had ended and sent a paramedic making tracks to obey. Hank headed toward the engine at a more leisurely pace.

* * *

John had his head in a compartment on his side of the squad as his silent partner listened from where he stood on the driver's side.

"Man, Roy, the whole _point_ of doing something spontaneous is to spend less time _deciding _to do it than it will take to explain_ why _you did it after the fact."

Roy's attention to a spot just off John's right shoulder should have been a head's up, but John missed that subtle clue and started to take a step back after he closed the compartment door. He felt a steadying hand just below his shoulder blade and swallowed his next comment before turning to face the captain whose feet he'd almost stepped on.

"That kind of flies in the face of the concept of risk assessment, doesn't it, John?"

"Well, I, ah...of course I wasn't talking about a _fire_ scene or a _rescue_, Cap. I was referring more to everyday things like..." John leaned a shoulder against the squad and cast about for an appropriate example. The look of delighted inspiration that bloomed across his face gave warning that what was going to fall out of his mouth next would be vintage Gage. "...like jumping off a swing in broad daylight in front of impressionable wildlife."

"Or like saying something guaranteed to get you even _more_ latrine duty," Roy said under his breath as he opened the squad's door and slipped into the driver's seat.

A captain's promise to deliver something precisely along those lines was interrupted by a voice calling from their HTs, _"Station 51,"_

"Saved by the bell," John commented as he joined his partner in the squad and lifted his helmet from the bench.

_"Respond to broken water main and mudslide on Crenshaw Boulevard, one-point-three miles south of cross street, Palos Verdes Drive North; Crenshaw Boulevard, one-point-three miles south of cross street, Palos Verdes Drive North. Engine 106 and Battalion 7 are also in route, time out 0842."_

"Wishful thinking, Junior," Roy said as he pulled the squad into traffic. "Personally, I hope he rained fire down on your acrobatic ass for pulling that little stunt, and I hope he made an impression, which is probably wishful thinking on _my _part. You about gave me a heart attack back there..."

John leaned back against his seat and settled in to endure his second tongue lashing of the morning.

* * *

"Man, this would be the life," Chet said in a near shout to be heard above the engine's siren as he took in the uniformly white rancher-style homes and the miles of equally white wood fencing. Horses trotted along those fences, agitated by the passing fire rigs. A peacock hopped out of a roadside tree to drag his indignation and extravagant feathered train off across a pasture. Hank considered running with lights-only in order to spare the animals but there were bends in Crenshaw as it wound its way up the rolling hills and along steep canyons and cliffs. On such a road, motorists could use all the warning the oncoming emergency vehicles could provide. Both lights and sirens stayed on.

"Just look at these views..." Chet continued to rhapsodize.

"And just think of all those house payments," Marco's voice was also raised. "I hate to burst your bubble, Chet, but I'll bet there's not a single lot out here that's less than an acre."

"You'd want to be careful looking for any property with a view on this peninsula even if you _could _afford it," Mike commented, raising his voice even more to be heard from the front seat. "This road leads to Portuguese Bend, one of the most geologically unstable areas in the world. It's been moving off and on for millennia."

"Thank you Mr. Encyclopedia," Chet grumbled from his perch on the jump seat.

Mike reached to downshift as he maneuvered the engine around yet another climbing curve. "Don't tell me you've never heard the history of this road. Some folks say the county triggered a landslide when they tried to extend Crenshaw Boulevard to Palos Verdes Drive South in the late 1950's. Over one hundred houses were destroyed; there was a huge lawsuit and settlement. That bluff has been on the move since."

Chet wasn't giving up his daydream without a fight. "You heard what dispatch said. This mudslide was caused by a broken water main not the shifting sands of time. And anyway, Portuguese Bend is only one part of Palos Verdes; the whole peninsula isn't crumbling into the ocean."

Hank was getting ready to end the shouting-over-a-siren match when Mike delivered his closing argument. "Any structure is at risk of major movement if it's built on a slope or rimming a canyon like these above us are. If it's not a broken water main, it's leaking storm drains or improper landscaping. We've all seen what even a minor earthquake can do; we just drove right over the Palos Verdes fault line."

Chet gave a small sigh and aimed a wistful gaze out his window.

* * *

Mike and Roy parked the rigs well before the barrier of mud that had been carried from the terraced hillside rising from the road to their left and down into the canyon on their right.

Hank hopped out and walked past the squad, HT held to an ear. "Battalion 7, this is Engine 51, how do you read?"

_"Engine 51, this is Battalion 7, we read you, go ahead."_

_"_Battalion 7, we've just arrived on-scene at Crenshaw Boulevard." Hank paced the edge of the layer of the mud flow as he continued to scan the slide area in front of him. The section of roadway involved was maybe thirty-five feet across. Vehicles had begun to back up in both directions. Some drivers had gotten out of their vehicles for a better look at what was blocking traffic.

"_51, we see you from our position up on Canyon View Lane to your west. Our crews are evacuating several of the homes up here. The water main has been turned off. Check it out down there and give me a report when you can."_

"Ten-four, Battalion 7. Could we get some help with traffic control?"

"_Already on its way, 51."_

"Thanks, Battalion 7, I'll get back to you A.S.A.P., Engine 51 out."

Hank continued his survey and noted a Buick sedan and a Mustang that must have been heading north at the time of the active slide. Currently, they both sat caddywhompus in their lanes and up to their hub caps in slate-colored ooze. He turned back to the rigs, noting the civilians milling to the side of a residence on same terrace as the road. It looked like the long, low house had caught and channeled the flowing mud onto Crenshaw. He collected his paramedics when he passed the squad on his way back to the engine.

"Mike, you and Roy check out those folks next to the house down here; make sure they all got out and know they can't be going back in yet. And set out a few flares and cones when you get a chance." Hank turned to the balance of his crew. "Each of you grab a few flares yourselves for the other side of this mess. Let's go see what we've got going with those two cars. I guess we'll see if we can even stand up in this, let alone make any head way. Just keep away from the canyon edge."

It was an exercise in exaggerated limb-swinging motions as they moved toward the vehicles while fighting to keep their balance.

* * *

"This one's empty too," Chet called.

Hank scanned the milling crowd of motorists for signs of mud-splattered self-extricationists. "Okay, let's go set those flares. Keep an eye out, fellas; ask around and see if we can locate the people who were in these two cars. I want to be sure they got out okay." Each of his men turned to the canyon edge in shared concern, before turning to begin the slog to obey. He dug for the HT and faced the slope above, where he could see a white helmeted figure silhouetted against a red sedan. The distance was too great to make out which chief it was.

He was still working on freeing the Handi-Talkie when he heard a call from the fire-rig side of the scene off to his left; he let the HT slip back into its pocket and almost fell as he rotated his upper body faster than the sucking mud would allow his feet to turn. Hank caught his balance and moved toward the man who was trudging entirely too close to the drop-off for a captain's comfort. "Sir," he called. "You need to get away from that edge."

The man didn't obey; didn't even look up. His attention was focused on the very slope he'd just been warned to avoid as he scanned the falling slope at his feet.

Hank had a sudden sinking feeling that there might be a reason for this man's anxious canyon-side scrutiny. "Sir, stop, I'll come to you."

The man finally looked up with a tortured face and called back, "It's my son! He must have gotten out of our car back there while I went to see what was up with the stopped traffic. When I got back, he was gone; I can't find him. God, I can't find him!" The man took a step forward as he continued his frantic study of the dropping terrain.

Starting his own sweeping scan; Hank once again reached for the HT as he called, "Guys!" Three heads snapped up at their captain's summons. "We have a missing child; start a search!"

They were nine feet away from each other when the man cried out, "Damon! I'm coming, hold on son." The father threw himself to his knees and leaned so far over the edge Hank was sure he was going to continue in a fall. But the man righted himself, hauling a small boy to his chest.

"Battalion 7, this is..." Hank's right boot slid on a mud-camouflaged rock and he was pitched sideways. Both arms swung wide in an instinctive balance-grabbing motion that flung the HT from his grip. He didn't go to his knees but it was close.

Six feet separated him from the pair when the man tried to stand, lost his footing and fell to his side.

He was almost there when the two disappeared over the edge. Only a hand and its scrabbling fingers remained in view.

A fireman leapt.

* * *

Hank lay full across the pavement, both arms over the edge to firmly grip a right arm. _Please, please still be holding on to your son._ Looking down, he could see the boy clinging to his father like a monkey; a panicked monkey who feared the muddy slide to the jungle floor far, far below.

"Ropes and life belts!" He raised his voice to carry over the noise the kid was making. The dad was punctuating the steady squeal with shouts for help of his own. "Okay, now just hang on, I've got you. Help is coming." Hank really did have a good hold, perhaps not as solid a grip as the four-point, prehensile one the kid below was maintaining, but one he judged as adequate for his needs at the moment. He planned to hang on until...his body was pulled two inches forward.

He felt something fall across his lower legs, and although he felt the impact, he welcomed the pinning weight and the hand that wormed under the back of his turnout coat and the fingers that curled around his belt. _Marco had been closest._ He couldn't turn his head to check. "Marco, that you, pal?"

"_Si_, Cap. Mike and Roy are bringing the gear from the engine. Hang on..."

Hank felt the tilting shift beneath him from his chest to his knees. He dropped his head over the edge and was treated to the scenic view of the underside of the pavement, exposed by the trenching water that had found a path beneath the roadway. He envisioned what was going to happen next, but was helpless to do anything about it.

The jutting ledge of asphalt sagged further, then folded beneath him. "Hang on!" he called to the pair below. He closed his eyes in regret when he realized that Marco would also hear the order and possibly die for his willingness to obey. In his heart he knew that it was no order that kept his lineman clinging to his knees as the four of them were tipped into the canyon below.

* * *

A captain hung upside down.

He lifted his face out of the soggy earth and spit some of it from his mouth but could do nothing about the mud that packed the sockets of his eyes. He still had a two-handed grip on the arm which was still gripping back. He _thought_ someone might have him in a bear-hugging hold just below his knees. He shifted them a bit. _Yep, Marco could be one tenacious son-of-a-gun. _He coughed and spit again.

"Sir? Are you alright? Do you still have your son?" _Please, God, let that kid still be there._

Damon himself provided the answer by treating them to the same high pitched wail that he'd had going before.

"Yeah, we're still here. What next?"

_What, indeed? _"Marco? How're you doing, pal? Got a firm grip on something other than my knees?"

"Ah," Marco must have swallowed more than the daily suggested dose of minerals himself, judging by the sputtering and spitting going on at what Hank guessed was about the level of his own feet. "_Si_, Cap, I'm alright. You?"

"In one piece, but I can't see a thing through all this mud, can you?"

"_Si_, the view from here is... stunning."

That made the man below snort, perhaps in agreement, perhaps in dealing with his own taste of the hillside. His son, having checked in with his opinion had fallen into a series of whimpers that while lower in volume, were disturbing on a different level. "Okay, then, care to share it with me? Describe where we are."

"Cap, it looks like we slid about thirty-five, maybe forty feet. The slope eases a bit where we are, which slowed our speed some, I think. I'm standing on _una_ _diminuta_ ledge, holding your legs," Hank felt a squeezing demonstration, "and I can't see much else because a pair of size thirteen-and-a-half boots keeps kicking me in the face."

It was a captain who snorted this time, but he made a concerted effort to still his legs. It was just such a disorienting feeling, this inverted, sightless position he found himself in. "What about the rest of the slope besides where we are? Anything we can tie off too?"

"Not within reach, and Cap, we don't have a hand to spare between us anyway."

"Okay, I'm getting the picture. How about you, Sir? You and your boy still doing alright?"

"We're hanging in there."

Hank would have rolled his eyes at the man he held, if not for the mud mask which still prevented such an expression. At least the guy was in fine enough spirits to try to crack a joke.

When he didn't get a laugh, the man added, "Actually we stopped sliding above a spot where I can brace against the root of a tree. Your man is right; the slope here isn't as steep. We're good for now, although I think I may have gone deaf. My name's Mark Dudley, by the way."

Hank could sympathize. He knew what that shrieking wail had sounded like from a few feet away; Mr. Dudley's eardrums might've started to bleed soon if little Damon hadn't run out of steam. "Marco, what about the guys, any sign of our posse?"

There was a twisting shift of Marco himself, but not of his hold on a set of knees. "_Si_, Cap. There's a tree off to our right, and up about twenty feet. Chet is anchoring John from there; John's almost down to us now."

"What're they using, rope? Are they wearing safety belts?"

"Well, Cap, they're using their webbing rescue loops. And...well there's a lot of mud... and I think they must've headed down right after we, ah, did..."

Hank would have closed his eyes at the mental picture Marco was painting if his eyelids hadn't already been glued in that position. "They're not wearing belts, are they? Tell me Chet is at least tied into that damned tree."

"Well, there's a lot of mud..."

"Never mind, I'll just assume they're on the second pitch of an unprotected belay unless you tell me different. Any sign of Mike or Roy?"

"Hey, Cap, Marco, you two doing alright?" John's cheeriness somehow rubbed his captain the wrong way.

_If he says one thing about "hanging in there", I'm going to take that knife he carries in his right front pocket and fillet him alive, with my eyes glued shut._

"You guys just hang on, more help's coming."

_Close enough. _John was lucky both of his captain's hands happened to be busy. "Stow it, Gage. Give me a report. Marco says Chet's belaying you from a tree trunk?"

"Ah, well, _near_ a tree trunk... maybe a few feet _below _it now. What webbing we had on us, didn't quite reach, so Chet slid down to a boulder, well a rock really, and has me from there."

Hank shook his head to try to clear the mud from his eyes. He _really needed _to open them so that he could glare at the bearer of this disturbing news. It didn't work. "Where are you Gage? You'd better be on something more solid than a 'rock-not-a-boulder' or 'una diminuta' ledge."

"Hey, are you okay? Cap? I'm standing right here. Did you hit your head?" Gage sounded worried. Hank felt the chin strap of his helmet loosen enough to allow searching fingers to probe through his hair and he imagined a dangling paramedic performing an assessment.

_"No _I did _not_ hit my head. If you want to do me a favor, scrape the mud off my face so I can see what the hell you are all up to."

Obedient hands did just that and Hank got his first peek at the rescue scene. He turned his head to the right. John wasn't dangling but he _did _seem to be kneeling on Marco's ledge.

"John, do you have enough slack to reach the boy?"

"Sorry, Cap. I can barely reach your head," John answered as he righted his captain's helmet and gave the loose strap a cinching tug. "You gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, as things stand, I'm not supporting any of their weight. Little Damon here isn't going to be the one to let go and I've got a good grip on Mr. Dudley, so they're not going anywhere, unless I do." Stretched out as he was, facing the slope, Hank couldn't turn his head enough; not enough to do a proper size up; not enough to see anything of much use at all. "Either of you got a bead on Roy or Mike?"

John stood and there was another grip added behind his knees. After some shuffling, and captain-juggling, Marco was able to answer. "Roy's just headed down now, Cap. 'Looks like Mike has him on belay. They're using a rope. He's wearing a...yep, he's got a rescue belt on." Marco's voice brightened with this announcement.

"Okay, then. I guess I'll let _him_ live to see his next rescue. Have him tie Chet off on his way down. When he gets to us, we'll rearrange things a bit and just wait for reinforcements to arrive. Please, God, tell me someone has called for reinforcements."

"Mike made the call," John said before relaying his captain's orders. There was some more shifting. "Hey, Cap?" John sounded worried again. "The angle is really only this steep right here where the running water eroded a kind of chute. When you get a better look at it...once you can see it right, um, right-side up, I mean, well, we were being careful..."

"Enough, John. I get it. We'll be discussing this later and you can regale the entire shift with your opinion on how safe this operation was from beginning to end. About how much further does Roy have to go before he reaches us?"

* * *

After learning of the news team that had set up across the canyon, a husband wondered what his wife was going to think when she got wind of what he and the crew had been up to the last hour or so. Odds were, she would find out during the opening segments of the local news. Perhaps she wouldn't recognize him. He removed his helmet. No such luck, the white stripe remained clearly visible in spite of its wearer's recent mud excursion. Rosie was going to know. She was going to be frightened and concerned (which he regretted to his marrow) even if she realized they were all safe when she found out. Then all hell was going to break loose when she figured out who'd literally been dangling by his toes. The fear would last longer than the anger, and he could see no way to spare her either. They all had phone calls to make, the sooner, the better.

Hank stood with Battalion 7's Chief Kevin Delmonico who'd had a clear view of 51's mud-adventure and subsequent rescue from where he'd set up command on the terraced road above. He longed to take himself and his crew back to the barn to scrape off a few layers of adventure and make those phone calls.

Instead, he and the chief were discussing the house which was now overhanging the donor site of most of the dirt and rock that had been carried across Crenshaw and down into the canyon. The guys passed them on their way to the rigs and Marco paused a moment to consider that dwelling also. He looked around to make sure there were no civilians within earshot before calling, "Hey, Chet, I think I know of a place out here you could afford." He had to trot to catch up with his fellow lineman.

Chief Delmonico also checked to make sure Marco's words could not have fallen on ears that might be offended and then laughed himself. "I'm thinking I wouldn't care to own _any_ of the houses on this hillside, it all looks pretty unstable at the moment. Oh, before I forget, I want to compliment you on that fine display of incident command, managed _upside-down, _no less. How'd that work out for you, Stanley?"

Hank started to open his mouth but snapped it closed to keep from ingesting any more of Rancho Palos Verdes. He imagined he would be tasting that posh brand of mud for days. He silently endured the ribbing his superior officer was indulging in.

"Damn, it looked at one point like two of your men were holding you up to shake the change out of your pockets."

* * *

As was his custom after any involved run, Hank held an incident review session after the lunch dishes were cleared. He had his crew bring their coffee and a few extra chairs into the day room, so that they could use the chalkboard if needed.

He stood in front of the board, and waited for the guys to get settled.

"Okay men, I think I'll get the ball rolling. I owe you all an apology," Hank paused as every man before him shifted and drew themselves up to begin talking at once. "Hold on, you know how this works. You'll all get a chance to add your two cents, but for now I just want you to listen. I should have realized that the edge of that pavement on the canyon side was undercut. I should have guessed it wouldn't hold my added weight. I am always harping on you fellas about the importance of situational awareness, and well, this is a prime example of a time when a little more _awareness_..." He had to stop and glare two members of his crew into continued silence before continuing, "...a little more awareness on my part might have prevented what turned into a pretty involved and exposed rescue." He held his hands up to still the mounting unrest before him. _I guess this isn't going to be one of those sessions where I have to pull teeth to get audience participation._ "Hang on, now, hang on. Having thrown that out there, I don't know if that knowledge would have changed my actions when I saw those two go over the edge or not. I guess we'll never know. But let's give this a shot.

"Let's start with what each of you saw and were thinking and work our way through the rescue that way. Then we'll talk about what we could have done differently and decide on what we'll do the next time we find ourselves clinging to one another as we dangle over the edge of a near-vertical drop. In a perfect world there wouldn't _be_ a next time, but part of risk management is stored experience, and there a few lessons we can take from our earlier mud-encrusted adventure. Mike, the floor is yours." Hank dropped the chalk he hadn't used into Mike's hand as they exchanged places.

* * *

A little over an hour later, uninterrupted by pesky tones, the chalk had made its way full circle. **"**I guess it comes down to the fact that no run is ever perfect," Hank admitted. "Taking a calculated risk requires that you take the time to make some calculations. I am here to insist we all _take_ _that time_ whenever it's at all feasible. There will always be situations that require quick action. Sometimes, there's the need for _spontaneous_ decisions, made in the context of past experiences." He made eye contact with a member of his crew who wore a slightly crooked grin in recognition of the bone his captain had just tossed his way. "Think of risk assessment as time well spent on increased safety with the added bonus of cutting down on the effort you'll have to expend explaining your actions after the fact." Hank paused with a slight smile of his own. "All-in-all, I'd say 'well done' men."

"Still this doesn't lessen the need for policy and preparation, so on that note..." Hank dropped the piece of chalk into the tray, and dusted off his hands. "...I'll meet you gentlemen out back for some drills. Everybody grab the webbing from your turnouts. Bring whatever you've got stashed in those pockets along with some carabiners and gloves. I've just thought of a set-up I'd like to experiment with."

* * *

There was a definite nip in the early October air as they each practiced smoothly retrieving various lengths of webbing from personal favorite and hotly defended folds and pockets. They linked their loops of webbing together behind their backs, with gloves on, even hanging upside down while safely tied off to the hose tower's ladder.

"Chet, I told you twenty feet of webbing was better. Aren't you glad you listened last time we had this discussion?" John asked after performing a particularly long reach using the same two lengths he and Chet had used during the mud rescue earlier that shift.

"What I'm really glad about is that I had my turnout on. Did any of you get a look at Mike's back?"

There was a growl of displeasure from the new focus of everyone's attention. "Sorry fellas, nothing to see here, let's just be moving on," Mike said in his best _Adam 12_ imitation of crowd control.

The advancing crowd of crew members was proving to be hard to control.

"I am _not_ strippin' out here guys, it's too cold and it's..."

"Stoker..." the warning had the engineer shucking out of his turnout and untucking a blue shirt before an actual order could be issued. Mike allowed two paramedics and the additional rubbernecking spectators a peek.

Marco's low whistle at the angry red welts made Mike twist to get a view of his own lower back. "It's not as bad as it looks," he said as he tugged his white tee-shirt down, effectively dropping curtain on the show. "I didn't have time to set up a proper belay, let alone throw on a turnout or rescue belt."

They each gave their engineer a knowing glance. Every one of them had experienced just such a rope burn across a wide variety of body parts. None of them remembered the experience fondly. Such burns were not debilitating, but the fact that they usually didn't require treatment didn't keep them from stinging like hell for days. Much to Mike's relief, the crowd started to dispersed.

"Mike, what was up with that? You _always _wear your turnout even if we're just on a grocery store run." Chet gave Mike an unbalancing nudge as the engineer tucked his shirt tails back in. "It's like you expect a flashover every time we leave the safety of the rig."

"Apparently not _always, _Chet, and not _every _time." Mike gave the lineman an answering shove as they turned back to where the others had continued the discussion of the utilitarian properties of a trusty length of webbing.

Hank turned to comment just in time to see the look that passed between his senior paramedic and his engineer. _Was Michael blushing?_

* * *

A hand on a shoulder kept Mike from joining the others after Cap called a halt to the drill.

"Meet me in the office, I have a question about those vacation days you asked for."

"Sure, Cap," Mike answered as he considered the possibility he might not get the time off.

* * *

"Okay, Stoker, spill," Hank ordered as he closed the office door. "Why'd you let Chet go on about your not wearing your turnout to that run? _He _might not remember, but _your captain_ does." He moved to sit behind his desk, but his engineer chose to remain standing. "You had it on at the park, and I distinctly recall you were wearing it during the ride to the mudslide scene." Hank pictured a canvas-covered arm reaching to downshift on the trip up Crenshaw Boulevard.

The man standing before him was turning red again; Hank sat back in his chair. _This must be a better story than I thought. _

Mike seemed to be having trouble with the start of the tale, so his captain gave him a helpful prompt. "You had it on when we arrived. We split up at the scene and then you took it off to...

"Well, I, ah... took it off to... give Roy a hand with ...one of the ah...folks from that lower house.

Hank rested his chin in a hand. His engineer was sure choosing his words carefully. "Because..."

"Because… you told me to?"

A chin dipped; two eyebrows raised.

"Well, they all had to leave their house real sudden-like, having been told to evacuate and all. And no one was supposed to return to their homes until the chief gave them the okay..." Mike was monitoring Cap's face for the exact moment when his commanding officer was satisfied and he could leave off without having divulged more details than strictly necessary to end the conversation.

The expression he was tracking clearly said, "And...?"

"...and Cap, she was cold and wet from being in the shower and she was..." Mike's voice trailed off.

There it was again, that charming blush. Hank figured it was time to let Mike off the hook, having gotten a pretty good idea what was behind Mike's reluctance to share the story until it was forcibly extricated. "And you thought she needed your coat more than you did."

The played-out man folded into one of the wooden chairs facing the desk. "Yeah, Cap," Mike cracked his first smile since entering the office. "Even with my turnout on, she still looked, ah... uncovered and... aw hell, Cap, it was distracting as all get-out."

* * *

**.**

**2**

Over two months later, Hank's mind still occasionally wandered back to the mudslide scene and all the details he had missed during that particular rescue.

He turned his attention back to this rotation's pre-fire planning activities. Hank thought of these as their "get out-and-about missions". They were an extremely productive use of a fire crew's time, allowing them to kill a whole flock of birds with one stone. It was a rare shift when he didn't have at least one set up.

Sometimes, due to run volume, they missed the appointments, but engineers, managers and owners were all aware that the fire crew was on duty; they rarely complained.

These forays offered a chance to meet and support members of the community and also provided an ideal opportunity to educate and communicate. It never hurt for tax payers to see firemen working outside of the stations.

While they were doing safety checks and touring buildings they were also increasing their knowledge of their first-due district. A working fire was simply no time to be discovering the unique challenges each structure could present. In this context, "home field advantage" meant that they knew their own district well, had been out in it often, having imagined buildings on fire, roofs collapsed and roads flooded. Hank was a big believer in using these field trips as mission planning exercises and often tried to time them to coincide with recent training programs or to highlight key lessons he felt needed reinforcing.

He picked up the phone to confirm two appointments with business owners later in the shift.

* * *

"Cap, of all the things I could write about that fire, and what they want to know is "At what point did you realize you had mis-placed the piece of equipment listed on line 'C'?"

Captain Stanley looked up as his junior paramedic surged into the office waving a piece of paper. "Come on in, John, what's on your mind?" His sarcasm was completely lost on the wall of turmoil that was John Gage.

"Really? You know what? I hadn't even realized that an ax _was_ missing until the next morning, when we did inventory."

Hank leaned back in his chair with his fingers steepled as his junior paramedic advanced towards his desk.

"And you know what else? I wasn't all that beat up over its loss then, and I'm _still_ having a bit of trouble dredging up the proper amount of remorse to fill out this damn form today." There was a snap of paper as John rattled exhibit 'A'.

"Damnit! It was an _ax, _a lousy ax. I probably just set it aside, maybe when I started CPR on that victim, or leaned over to lift him to my shoulder. Or, it might have been later when that step gave way and threw me. I _might_ have needed two hands to catch myself, I just don't remember. But I'll tell you what I _do_ remember. I remember the exact moment when I realized I had mis-placed my _partner_. John spun and took two receding steps toward the door, before turning to face his captain again.

Hank waited patiently for the next swell to build.

"Hey, do you think they want to hear about _that_, about how we were both searching for that second victim, belly down because the air above our heads was so hot we couldn't even raise to our knees? Searching blind because visibility was for shit? Or how with all the noise that place was making as the fire gnawed on it, I couldn't hear anything else except for the sound of my own breathing as the regulator cycled on and off?" The force of John's agitation broke against the front of Cap's desk as he curled in hovered suspension over hands braced against the solid wood. Hank thought the sound of John's breathing was pretty audible without any augmentation from an air pack.

He waited.

John twisted away and began a three-pace striding maneuver that served to dissipate some of the spilling storm-churn.

"Cap, I'm not making excuses here. I've been in the same exact position, on so many fires over the years that I've lost count; besides the fact you've drilled us until our eyes are crossed on how to function during the worst situations imaginable. I've gone over it, and over it, and Cap, I still can't tell you how I let it happen. One minute he was in front of me, and the next... Maybe _that's_ when I lost the damn ax." John had reigned in his more dramatic arm gestures with a final agitated drag of his fingers through his hair but he was still on the move.

"You about done there, John?"

The paramedic stalled mid-pivot and ducked his head in chagrined awareness. "Ah, sorry, Cap."

"John." Hank paused, waiting for eye contact before he continued. "I know having to fill out paperwork can sometimes seem punitive. But I think the bigger issue here is that you need to stop beating yourself up for getting separated from Roy during that office fire last shift. We went over this during that fire's postmortem. Things happen during even the best-run fire scenes. We all know that." Hank bent sideways to retrieve a form from a file in a lower desk drawer. "Since then, I've talked to Roy and I know you have too. After you two got split up and he was ordered out by the incident commander, it took him a few minutes to find his way back inside to join you again. Believe me, he was just as upset by the situation as you were - _are_. He chose different words to express that frustration, mind you. _He,_ at least, has some healthy respect for the office of captaincy.

"Now buck up and fill out that _damn_ form." Hank held out a crisp replacement for its beleaguered mate. "Give your best guess as to where you left the _damn_ ax and just get the chore over with, _damnit_." He gestured to the shelves behind John. "And then maybe you'll want to borrow my thesaurus to pick out a few more curses. If you're going to swear, Gage, I'd expect you to at least be a bit more eloquent about it". Hank kept his face impassive.

John took a steadying breath. "Sorry, Cap. That was way out of line. And I _do_ respect your office, I mean your being a captain and ah, well, _you, _Sir."

Nodding his acceptance of this apology, and squelching the smile that still threatened, Hank inserted a briskness into his next order. "Get to it, John. Have that on my desk by shift change, tomorrow morning."

After his paramedic left the office, Hank's face almost relaxed, but he shook his head and frowned as he turned his attention back to his own damn stack of paperwork.

* * *

He looked up from his clipboard when he heard the squad as it was backed into the bay. He had moved his desk work to the day room for a change of pace and was sharing the couch with Chet and Henry. He lifted a sleeping hound's lips as he provided a grumbly voice to the ventriloquist act in his lap, "Move it, Chet, your captain needs to get up."

Chet shifted and accepted a nudged doggy bulk onto his own lap.

"Up and at 'em, Chester B., there's about a mile of hose from C-shift's 3 a.m. fire that we have to get to sometime today. It shouldn't take long; I'll send reinforcements as soon as I make sure John and Roy know that their lunch is waiting in the oven."

* * *

Hank set about placing dual foil-covered plates between the waiting silverware on the table. "Careful, fellas, these are hot," he cautioned. John had entered the kitchen right on Roy's heels with his usual animation, which signaled to their captain that their run had gone well. "How'd that last run go, guys?" he asked anyway, curious what the dispatcher's cryptic "child injured in a fall" might have entailed.

"A four-year old took a tumble off of one of those springing hobby-horses." Roy supplied as he pulled a chair out. The bemused shake of the paramedic's head held a clue that there was more to the tale.

John looked up from pouring two glasses of milk at the counter. "He wouldn't have needed a trip to the ER except for the toothbrush that ripped open the inside of his cheek. Don't even ask what he was doing brushing his teeth in front of _Sesame Street _while bouncing on a Palomino Radio Flyer named _Wonder."_

"He was lucky, I've read reports of kids impaling themselves up past the bristles after falling while they brushed their teeth," Roy said as he reached to accept the glass Johnny handed him.

"Man, that kid musta swallowed a ton of blood before we got there, 'cuz the scene wasn't nearly as messy as you'd expect judging by how much that wound was bleeding," Johnny said as he gingerly lifted the foil from his plate, releasing steam and an aroma he sniffed with appreciation.

"Yeah, that was right polite of the little guy. Next thing you know, they'll have to add the Surgeon General's warning on those things." Roy set the foil from his own plate aside.

"What, bouncy-horses or _toothbrushes_?" John asked around the mouthful of enchilada he was chewing.

"Next thing you know, there will be that warning on _life,_" Hank offered over his shoulder as he went in search of Mike and Marco.

* * *

They'd only managed to fold two fifty-foot sections of dry inch-and-a-half onto the hose bed of the engine after exchanging it for the wet lengths now hanging in the tower when the tones began to sound. Station 51 was among a string of companies responding to a multi-vehicle pile-up on the transition road between northbound I-405 and northbound I-110. They and Engine 10 were to approach from the south while companies from Battalion 18 were coming from the north. Two other squads would be responding.

* * *

What would have normally been a six minute response time was slowed when Roy and Mike had to maneuver the rigs onto the shoulder as they merged onto I-110.

As they passed the lanes of stopped traffic, Hank keyed the radio. "Battalion 18, this is Engine 51, we are approaching the scene. Traffic is stopped; unknown how close to your location we'll be able to get our rigs."

_"51, this is Battalion 18, we have good access from the north. What we're dealing with is a chain reaction of collisions scattered across all of the northbound lanes. Multiple injuries. The paramedics on scene are triaging. Get as close as you can, and work from your end."_

"Ten-four, Engine 51 out." Hank hung up the radio just as the squad pulled to the far right of the shoulder, blocked by a silver Honda Civic lying across their path as well as half of the far right hand lane of traffic. Mike parked the engine behind the squad.

"Well, guys, 'looks like this is where we start," Hank said as he swung himself up to a standing position, bracing a foot against the inside of the cab door he'd just swung open. "Chet, pull an inch-and-a-half and check for gas leaks."

From his higher vantage point, he counted eleven vehicles with varying degrees of visible body damage lying strewn between his engine and the fleet of response vehicles set up at the northern edge of the carnage. A cluster of four passenger cars seemed to be claiming the lion's share of the available resources working the leading edge of the pile-up. One of those frame-twisted vehicles had smoke coming from under its hood. Firemen and officers from various law enforcement agencies had spread out and were working amongst the remaining wreckage. A pair of sedans and a sporty little Fiat looked like there had been some interaction of the rear-ending variety. A station wagon and a Jeep on its side rounded out the trail to the two vehicles his own paramedics were heading for.

The door of the van Roy chose to size up first seemed to be giving him some trouble and John was still circling the Honda. "Marco, get the battery cables on the Honda and Roy's van first." He jumped down from his perch. Mike was checking the gauges as Hank rounded the back of the engine and patted his engineer shoulder before reaching for a Halligan. "Join us when you finish with the hose work."

Hank started with the Civic. John was already inside, stretching into the rear seat from the front passenger seat. "Whatcha got, Gage?" He asked his paramedic's backside.

"A broken shoulder and some minor contusions. These three can wait for a bit." John's muffled voice preceded him as he wiggled out of the cramped space. He wrote something on a paper tag and slipped it under a windshield wiper. "I'll check the Jeep. Cap, it looked like Roy could use a hand," John called as he trotted across the concrete to where the nose of the Jeep had come to rest against the cement divider.

Chet and Roy had managed to pry the van's rear door into submission, so Hank moved on down the line to the station wagon.

He reached through the shattered driver's side window and felt for a carotid pulse just as the woman groaned. He placed a preemptive hand on her forehead anticipating her next sign of life, which was to try to jerk her head around in disoriented panic. "Easy there, try not to move, you've been in an accident." Hank kept his hand where it was and twisted to get a bead on what his paramedics were up to. Neither one of them appeared on the trail of his wishful thinking; Stoker did though.

"Hey, Cap, need some help?"

"Yeah, Mike. She looks like she cracked her head pretty hard. Grab a backboard and a C-collar for when one of the paramedics get here. Grab one of them too while you're at it."

Hank kept her head firmly pinned and asked, "Ma'am, were you the only one in this car?" as he twisted around to get a look at the back seat and the floorboards beneath.

"I, I was... what happened?" she stuttered without managing to answer the question. Her fingers came up to her forehead but bounced off a blocking wrist.

"You were in an accident," Hank repeated as he captured her fluttering hand. "Can you tell me if anyone else is in the car with you?"

"No, I was... headed to pick up..." she paused to close her eyes as she struggled to reconstruct her last memories."...we were going to finish up a project and grab a bite to eat." The woman opened her eyes with a gleam of triumph but it faded when she continued in a tired, defeated voice, "I was alone, but I don't remember what happened." Her eyes drifted closed again.

"No, stay with me now," Hank commanded. "You're doing great. It looks like you ran smack dab into a freeway pile-up on your way to lunch. I need you to try to hold still until one of the paramedics can check you out. Can you tell me your name?"

He continued to make small talk and learned that Katie worked for a law firm and the project she was working on had been a pain-in-the-butt to get past the pain-in-the-butt bosses she had to deal with on what she claimed was a daily basis. He learned that although she talked a big talk, she really did seem to like her job. He was just grateful she kept up her end of the conversation until not one, but two paramedics he didn't recognise arrived to pick up the thread. Mike must have gotten tied up somewhere, after dropping off the backboard.

Hank pulled the HT from a pocket to test an impression that the sirens he had been hearing while he was engaged in discussing office politics with Katie had signaled the thinning of the ranks of those victims needing the most care. Command brought him up to speed, and he gleaned the general co-ordinates of his crew. Law enforcement officers were moving through the scene, taking measurements and statements. The first of the tow trucks were beginning to arrive. He headed towards the spot where he had last seen Gage.

Reaching the rear of the rolled Jeep, he quickly amended his earlier assessment. The scene had not completely shifted focus from rescue to investigation and wrap up. Clearly, there was at least one remaining victim that was going to command attention and skilled resources before they could fully sort and tally the toll at the end of this day. He stopped at what he guessed to be his junior paramedic's boot. He was guessing, because any truly identifiable parts attached to that boot were covered by a strategically placed tarp, or were hidden by the draping canvas flaps of the Jeep's tattered roof. But since his engine crew seemed to be key members of the bustle surrounding the Jeep, he figured it was a pretty educated guess.

The fireman inside the cribbed-in-place Jeep, contortionist extraordinaire, seemed to be supporting what must be the torso of a victim, also under the protective tarp. Hank was willing to bet it was a seat belt that had held the driver in place before aid arrived - that, and perhaps the steering wheel that must be within a foot of the leather of the driver's seat, judging by the new specs of the crash-redesigned vehicle.

"Ready!" a muffled, hypothesis-confirming voice called.

John had his one visible boot braced against the Jeep's roll-bar while Mike and another fireman used a chain and the jaws to pull the dash and steering wheel. The Jeep was protesting this process with the tortured grind and screech of metal twisting away from metal.

Hank reached to help support the expected sag of released weight just before one of the spotting firemen called a halt to the slow, relentless movement of the jaws.

"Okay, I think we've got him."

"Could someone get this tarp?"

A turnout covered arm brushed Hank's ear. He turned his head and recognized Marco as the man reaching up above their heads.

"Hey, Cap..." his lineman interrupted his greeting with a grunting stretch to cut the seat-belt. A backboard held high was waiting to catch the man as he was lowered from supporting shoulders. The victim-bearing backboard was passed to the waiting men outside. John stepped through the Jeep's hanging roof-flaps still holding C-Spine.

As John and another paramedic leaned over their patient, Roy's voice came over the HTs. "Engine 51, this is Squad 51. Do you copy?"

"Squad 51, this is Engine 51, go ahead."

"Cap, I'm back on scene. I've got a man here telling me there's a woman about to deliver a baby in a semi somewhere in the stopped traffic south of where we left the rigs. I'm going to go check it out. If you could have someone head this way with an OB box and some oxygen, I've got a drug box and a BioPhone with me. Over."

"Copy that, Squad 51. OB box and O2 to your location. We'll need an update on that once you know _which _semi we're heading for."

"Ten-four, Cap. I'll let you know. Squad 51 out."

"Marco, you're with me. Mike, you and..." Hank paused to locate his second lineman who was pulling the chain and the jaws out from underfoot. "...Chet stay and help Gage here. There's an ambulance queued up at the staging area to take this guy in when he's ready. Keep in touch," he ended with a pat to the HT poking out of a turnout pocket.

* * *

Hank pulled himself up to lean into the cab of the semi. Roy backed out from where he'd been kneeling between the bucket seats in front of a young girl sitting on the bed in the sleeper section. She clutched a sheet tightly across her hips.

**"**Cap, she's in active labor." Roy announced as he reached for the bulky OB box. "How's Johnny doing with his victim?"

Hank turned to accept the green cylinder Marco was handing up to him. He tucked it into the space just right of the steering wheel shaft before climbing the rest of the way into the semi's cab. "He's managing. Mike and Chet are helping with that, along with the crew from 158. 'Looks like he'll have his hands full for awhile yet." A significant look told Roy volumes about how well _that_ situation was likely to turn out. "She can't be moved?" He asked, already anticipating the answer. _Roy wouldn't have looked so eager to get his hands on the OB kit if he was planning on a leisurely trip to Rampart._

"Not until we get them both stabilized. She doesn't know when the baby's due, but I'm guessing she's at least four weeks early." Roy lowered his voice further. "Cap, she's only twelve so that might complicate things a bit. She's a runaway, although she gave me her name and age easily enough. The driver just picked her up, so he's not going to know anything. Could you get an officer to put her in protective custody until we can get this all sorted?" The figure on the bed gasped. "The sooner, the better, cuz this baby isn't going to wait," Roy added as he move back to the sleeper section.

Hank sat back in the passenger seat as he pulled out his HT. "Battalion 18, this is Engine 51, do you read?"

"51, this is Battalion 18, go ahead."

"Chief, we need a law enforcement officer at our location on 405, a half-mile south of the accident scene, the black Peterbilt semi truck, A.S.A.P; we need permission to treat a minor."

There was a pause before an answer came. "Copy that, Engine 51, a CHP officer is on his way."

"Battalion 18, do we have a time frame on getting an ambulance through?"

"51, best guess is another twenty minutes before we get a lane cleared from our end and thirty minutes minimum before an ambulance coming from the south would be available."

_Well, that's just dandy. _"Copy that, Battalion 18, send one when you can, Engine 51 out."

Hank rotated in the bucket seat to address the occupants of the semi's sleeper compartment. "CHP is on the way. They can get through on a 'cycle, but it'll be at least twenty minutes before we see an ambulance."

Roy again backed away from his patient who was now lying on the bed. Still in a crouch, he pivoted on his heels before swinging up into the driver's seat.

"Look, I know it will be tight quarters, but Cap, if you could sit up behind her and help coach her from there, that will help a lot."

Hank was folding himself into the indicated space on the passenger's side of the bed before Roy finished the request, but not before he made sure his paramedic caught the look he shot at him under raised eyebrows.

"You're doing fine, Tilde." Roy addressed the girl, but his eyes still held his captain's . "My Cap'n here is going to help you breathe and push and what-not when the time comes." He gave the girl a sympathetic smile that also encompassed his glowering leader.

"Tilde, meet Captain Hank Stanley; Cap, meet Tilde Shay-Chefler-with-a-hyphen. She's the last of a long line of Shays that were unwilling to let their name die out." Roy made sure the girl caught his teasing wink. He didn't miss the disbelieving '_AND WHAT-NOT'?"_ silently but clearly mouthed from behind his patient's head as his captain finished getting situated.

Tilde had shifted to the middle of the bed to allow this new arrival space; she was up on her elbows to avoid touching him.

Roy reached to take another set of vitals.

"Hi there, Tilde Shay-Chefler," Hank offered with a reassuring smile as he removed his helmet to give himself more headroom. The girl tucked her chin to her chest and refused to make eye contact. "Tilde's short for..." He left the question hanging.

"Matilda," the girl's quiet answer came with a belligerent glare shot back and up over her shoulder, in an obvious dare to make fun of the old-fashioned name.

He ignored the look and continued. "My grandma's name was Matilda, she went by Mattie." Hank wondered how much longer the girl could support herself on arms that were beginning to tremble.

A bit longer it seemed, since she responded from where she was. "Mine goes by Maddie, but when they asked if they should nick-name me that, she told them she wasn't done with her name yet so they'd better just choose from the hundred-and-one other ways to shorten Matilda."

"A hundred and one? Really. Are there that many?" Hank egged her on with a challenging smile. He reached for a pillow and placed it across his knees.

"Let's see, there's Tillie spelled at least four different ways, Maude with and without an 'e', and 'Maudie' and Mattie, spelled four different ways. Then there's mine which is Danish, I guess, and you can spell _that_ three ways. I'm _T, I, L, D, E. _Let's see..." there was a small gasp before she gamely continued, "Millie, MiMi, Mallie, Mally, Mat, Addy...and my brothers sometimes call me Attila the Hun, Lida..." The recitation ended in another gasp at the strength of the building contraction.

Roy gently eased her back to the pillow. "No, don't hold your breath. _Breathe, _like this. The paramedic demonstrated with three staccato pants of his own.

The girl obeyed, but her rapid-fire breaths came through clenched teeth. Hank leaned over to join her, wondering where he would land if he fainted from hyperventilation.

Tilde's face cleared as the pain receded. "Ella, Ellie and Tia. There're more, but damned if I can think of them right now."

"So how'd you choose 'Tilde' from amongst the plethora of choices?" Hank asked benignly, letting language slide that would have instantly earned his own kids swift sanction.

She rolled her eyes up to see his face. "Who gets to choose their own nick-name? Wait, I bet you did. They called you Henry until you were old enough to pitch a fit and you stopped answering to Henry until they all gave in and started calling you Hank. I'm right aren't I?"

"Nope, not even close, I was named after an uncle who went by Henry and to avoid confusion I was always called Hank. Now we call the fire station dog Henry."

Roy peeked around Tilde's raised and draped knees. "But we're not allowed to call the station pooch 'Hank'. Your grandma isn't the only one possessive of their nick-name. How you doing there, sweetie?"

Tilde gave him a single, quick nod before a gasp escaped.

"Okay, hon, this time I want you to _push, _real hard! Atta girl, keep pushing..."

She was squeezing Hank's hand with a force that demanded his attention. One would have thought that a father of three would recognize the feeling of holding a twelve-year-old's hand; he had held his own kids' often enough in the past. Before this, he would have told anyone he was an expert in the field. Over the years, his heart had memorized the quick, popcorn-bouncing clutch of fear during those eerie moments of building tension while watching some old horror flick. He'd known the tremble of a small hand during the truer terror of waiting for a turn in the dentist's chair and the "just hold onto my hand, son" grip performed while someone taped up a sprained slid-into-home-safe ankle. Since he had been banned from each of his kid's births back in the day of "fathers' waiting rooms", none of his prior hand-holding experiences resembled the crushing grip this petite girl marshaled as another contraction consumed her.

"Shit, that hurt," were the first words through lips that had been pressed so firmly together that they had blanched white in stubbornness. "So did you like your uncle?" Tilde panted as she slowly reclaimed control of her body.

"He was alright... always smelled like the ointment he used for his lumbago, but yeah, he was family." There was a pause as Roy hailed Rampart on the BioPhone he had propped on the driver's seat. Hank did not try to follow that conversation, but instead he worried at Tilde's question. He hated the dark spaces his mind swept through. _An uncle, was that who it had been? Who the hell was she running from? Where were her parents? _He turned his thoughts toward even grimmer hypotheses._ Were her parents even alive? Was no one looking for her? Where the hell were her people?" _He _hated_ that the whole of the human race was suspect; the entire world now the object of his silent railing for allowing the injustice he held in his arms.

_Fuck Fair, _his helpful mind dredged up from memories of the semi-military fire recruit classes of a decade and a half ago. _"I mean it," _Hank pictured the officer as the man stood over a fellow probie_. "Whoever told you life was fair was a damned liar. I'm not here to be fair. A fire isn't fair. Death is not fair. Life. Is. Not. Fair. Now get your butt in there and complete that drill._

"Can I call you 'Cap'n?" Tilde provided a welcome re-routing of thoughts.

"That always makes me think of CapN Crunch and his good ship Guppy." Hank was pleased at the smile this admission produced - on Tilde's face and also on Roy's as the paramedic moved to the side of the bunk to get a set of vitals on the girl his captain was entertaining.

"Huh. I kinda like 'Seadog' in those commercials..." Tilde's face scrunched in pain. Hank moved to better support her from behind her shoulders.

"Okay, Tilde, I'm gonna need another really big push here." Roy was back in position to coach from beneath the sheet. "There you go... alright! Another few good pushes like that last should do it."

"O Captain, My Captain," the girl he held looked up at him appraisingly. He brushed the sweat-soaked bangs off her forehead. "You kinda look like 'Old Honest Abe,' well, before the beard, anyway. You ever think of growing one?"

_Who was trying to distract who?_ "Nope, our air masks would never seal. Beards went out in the fire department sometime after masks came in. Hey, did you know that in the olden days firemen grew their whiskers long so they could pull the ends up..." Hank pantomimed with his empty hands. "...then hold them clenched in their teeth, and voila! Filtered air."

* * *

Roy was right. The next few pushes produced a few screams, some captainly sweat, a baby girl and (_thank God_), Johnny. In between the screams there had been a liberal peppering of phrases right out of a pirate's manual, but Hank had again ignored them on the grounds that he had to agree with the underlying sentiment they expressed. Sometime during the past half-hour, he'd ceased to regret missing his own children's deliveries.

Once the cord was clamped and cut, Roy had swung the baby around and placed her on the front passenger seat, all the while rubbing and drying in brisk motions with the sterile drape he had caught her in. A grim shake of John's head let his partner and captain know of the outcome of the desperate bid for a life that had been staged alongside the crushed Jeep. Efficient hands used a bulb syringe to clear tiny airways. "The guys are helping to clear a path for the ambulance. These two are the last that will need transport to a hospital." John stood on the running board and leaned into the semi's cab as he accepted the stethoscope from Roy and aimed the oxygen at the baby's nose and mouth.

Another fireman put a hand on John's shoulder. "We've got Rampart on a BioPhone out here, ready for vitals."

What ensued was a flurry of activity and communications that Hank interpreted as representing concern, but not grim, last-ditch efforts. The baby was crying. He gave Tilde's hand a squeeze. "Have you picked out a name?" He wished for a knife to sever his own tongue for uttering that last, but not before it was too late.

He steeled himself for her response, having no idea what to expect. Would it be an angry rejection of the baby or an eager clinging to the notion of a chance to play house with a real life doll, or somehow worse, the broken withdrawal of a child betrayed and alone?

"She's not mine to name."

Hank blinked in the face of this unexpected answer.

John had whisked the baby away and Roy was back to performing medicinally necessary things on the other side of the sheet/barrier.

"Tell them it's a "Shiny Schultz." Roy called out to the fireman still manning the BioPhone. His head appeared above the puppet stage of Tilde's knees. "Dirty Duncan or Shiny Schultz, it's just a way to describe the placenta," he supplied in smiling explanation as he wrapped something in another sterile drape.

Tilde seemed to have reached the bottom of her reservoir of strength and a tear escaped to trail down to the pillow still wedged between her head and Hank's knees. She turned to hide the next one and her gaze fell on the helmet lying on the floor in the corner of what Hank now viewed as one hell of a confined space.

"What does the white stripe mean, Cap'n?"

Try as he might, Hank couldn't come up with a funny rejoinder about his fire helmet, so he latched onto another tale about another hat from an earlier time. He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial tone. Roy was handing equipment out as he pretended not to be straining to catch the whispered conversation.

* * *

Ambulance is here," Mike's voice preceded the head and shoulders he poked into the semi's cab.

Law enforcement officers had made short work of collecting evidence in an effort to get traffic flowing again. Flares and cones had been placed in liberal array around this final set of the culminating drama which the freeway had served up. CHP Officers directed traffic around both sides of the semi's inert bulk.

Tilde lay neatly packaged in a stokes frame. She looked down at her blanket-covered feet where Roy had just tucked a bundle. "Who were Duncan and Schultz?"

Roy moved up to her head, arranging I.V. tubing and blankets along the way. "I don't know," he admitted with a smile. "Doctors, maybe?"

* * *

He held it together right up to the moment he gave the ambulance doors the requisite "all clear" double slaps, and then something began to well from that depth, that place that rarely made itself known to Hank.

He made furious, desperate eye contact with his engineer; made sure Stoker had a grip on the reins and then did something he'd never done in fifteen years of fire service. He deliberately turned away from a scene.

He didn't go far, but far enough to give himself some breathing,_ panting? _room. He was more than taken aback by this sudden reaction. _Reaction to what? What the hell was going on?_

Of course he knew. Outrage had been building even as he chatted with the run-away. Even though they had recovered one person who'd gone missing, and in doing so, successfully birthed a new one, he had grave doubts about the rescue possibilities of Tilde' stolen _childhood_.

Hank leaned with his hands braced against his knees, and forcefully gained control of his visceral response to this sure knowledge that someone, _everyone_ had let that little girl down. It was so unfair. He straightened, rejecting the punch line delivered so long ago by a captain intent on bringing his point home to the class of individuals he was trying to whip into shape.

Hank turned back to join his crew, who were pretending to be busy stacking the cones they had gathered in order to release the semi to merge with traffic and continue on its northerly route.

* * *

_Doesn't somebody want to be wanted like me?... _He pushed away from his desk where he'd been working since they'd hauled tail back to quarters after being released from the accident scene an hour ago..._where are you-oo-oo? _Hank rubbed the strain from his eyes with the heels of his hands and grimaced as he realized some portion of what Jack-the-groundskeeper had termed "grey stuff" laying between his own "damn-fool ears" had locked itself in a continuous loop of two lines of bubble-gum pop. _Doesn't somebody want to be wanted like me?_ _Just like me-e-e._ A sigh escaped as he realized what had resurrected this serenaded blast-from-the-past.

Tilde had mentioned sometime during their shared travail that she still had a crush on Bobby Sherman and had hummed a few bars of _Easy Come, Easy Go. _She must have been all of six years old during Sherman's hey-day as a teen idol.

Hank supposed some unused, dusty corner of his mind must have processed that useful tidbit and sorted through the stored soundtrack of the pop sensation it had been continuously bombarded with a few years ago. His daughter, Natalie had been all gaga over David Cassidy back then. The whole household had been ruthlessly subjected to repeat command performances as _Partridge Family_ albums were played over and over and over. The tune currently stuck in his head had been her favorite and as such, had gotten extra play time. It had been as obnoxious as hell and forced the investment in an early Christmas present. Natalie had received the pair of headphones in July of that year. She had just turned twelve...

_Stop it. _

He actually agreed with the wisdom of his own advice. Tilde was not his daughter, was in truth, nothing like Natalie. Hank indulged in a mental comparison to prove the point.

Tilde was twelve years old - an age at which Natalie had still been playing softball in the sand lot and climbing trees. Her biggest worry at that point had been that her unfathomably square parents would not let her date for _three whole more_ years.

His oldest child would turn fifteen next summer. She was inheriting his height, measuring 5 foot, 10 inches at her last check up. By all estimates, she was likely to add to that in the coming years, much to her _"no-one-will-ever-date-an-Amazon-anyway" _dismay.

Tilde was five-foot-two, tops, and although she was certainly young enough to have time for several extended growth spurts, Hank had no way of knowing if pregnancy and childbirth would allow for normal development. How the hell that child was going to ever have any sort of normal development of any kind was beyond him. And he hadn't been willing to ask the kid how tall her, _where the hell were they? _parents were and did she take after dear old dad?

_Stop it._

This child had hard edges hewed into her that his daughter would, Lord willing, never face a catalyst to develop.

His daughter was kind and gentle and generous in a world that made it easy to be kind and gentle. And that, he realized was perhaps the biggest yawning difference between the two.

_Cut this crap out. She is not your daughter. This could never happen to your daughter._

Looking at the wall clock, Hank decided there was enough of the afternoon left to make a few apologetic phone calls to the businesses they had stood-up to attend a more pressing engagement.

_But first_, he pushed himself up and out the office door, _I need to check on the troops._

* * *

He entered the kitchen and noted the slumped positions of his crew scattered where they had flopped after slogging through the bare necessities of after-run chores and clean-up.

He peered at Marco's new look. It wasn't really noticeable at first glance; you just kind of knew something was _off. _It took a moment to register that the man sitting at the kitchen table was missing his eye lashes. His eyebrows looked a bit crispy too.

Mike noticed his captain's double-take and chose to pipe in with, "Marco, you look like my youngest niece after her big sister gave her a beauty treatment. She took a pair of scissors and trimmed Patti's eyelashes clean off." He shook his head at the coffee pot his captain lifted in an offer to top his mug off.

"You were just lucky your old pal Chet was there to rescue most of your eyebrows," Chet added from his supine position on the couch.

"Get a little close to an engine fire?" Hank asked, searching Marco's face for other signs of such an encounter. He wasn't really concerned, knowing he would have heard about any serious facial involvement from multiple informants.

"No big deal, Cap. It was a _pequeño_ flare-up. I didn't move quite fast enough. Chet just used it as an excuse to get me really wet."

"That's gratitude for ya. You rescue a guy's facial hair and all you get are complaints." Chet didn't even open his eyes to deliver this last observation.

Hank swept his crew with an assessing gaze. Not one of them looked like they had it in them to chew, let alone whip up a meal. He pulled out his wallet. "I vote we order out for pizza." He placed a five dollar bill on the kitchen table. "Mike, since it was your turn to cook, you collect the money and remember..." The entire crew finished his sentence with, "...NO ANCHOVIES!"

Mike, grateful to be getting out of preparing the meal, heaved himself out of his chair and moved from man to man until he got to John whose payment included a two dollar bill. Mike turned it over. "These sure aren't catching on like the government hoped they would," he said as he added it to the stack and moved on to Roy.

Chet cracked an eyelid "Don't tell me, Gage tried to pay with monopoly money."

"Ha, ha, Chet. I got that bill yesterday as change at the dry cleaners."

"Well, don't try to pass any of your funny-money off on me. I think those are a pain to keep track of." Chet closed his eyes, but it was obvious to everybody in the room except John that Chet was winding him up.

And John levitated right out of the easy chair to take the bait, advancing on the smiling man on the couch. "You make it sound like I'm a counterfeiter or a money launderer or a, a ..."

The room waited in silence to see if John could come up with another example. Hank decided to put an end to a discussion none of them were up to listening to. "Pipe down you two; no one's calling anyone anything. Mike's going to order pizza in a bit, you two are gonna knock it off, and we're all going to relax while we can. Got that?" He turned, planning to sit at the table.

"I think the word you were looking for was 'crook', Gage. You should really invest in a dictionary..."

Hank rounded on his recumbent lineman. "Kelly. Hose tower. Now!"

_That _got Chet moving as he swung to a sitting position. "But Cap, that's not fair. You just said..."

It was Hank who closed his eyes in an effort to not over-react. Part of him wanted to lash out at something, _anything_ for the hurt he had witnessed, no, _held _earlier, and if that was not a sure sign of the perversity of the human condition, he didn't know what was.

_It is not your hurt to avenge._

He knew this, recognized it as truth and got up to leave before he purposely baited his lineman into crossing some invisible line so that he could indulge in raking him over the coals for the infraction in lieu of physically striking out at a target he could not identify, could not reach and had no right to hate. And yet he did. Hate.

"Now, Kelly," he ordered evenly before he spun on his heel and took himself off to his office.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, he reentered the kitchen. Three heads rose at his entrance. "Where's John?" he asked, already knowing where the fifth member of his crew was.

Roy indicated the back lot with a tip of his head. Cap waited for further explanation as he refilled his coffee mug.

"You know, my son, Chris spends a fair amount of time with his nose pressed into a corner for tormenting his little sister."

Hank took a step out onto the apparatus floor, then moved to get a view of the hose tower where John was standing at the top of the ladder while Chet hoisted the hose up to him. He returned to lean a hip against the kitchen counter, sure there was a point Roy had yet to make.

Roy obliged by continuing his parable. "Often as not, we'll find her keeping her big brother company and glaring at us for being so mean to him. When they're not drawing blood, they're each others' staunchest allies."

A mug was raised in acknowledgement of Roy's spot-on analogy. A sip was taken, the mug was placed on the counter top and a captain strolled through the apparatus bay to exit the station and continue on to the hose tower.

It turned out finishing the rest of the job was no challenge at all to six pairs of hands.

* * *

Hank heaved a sigh which would have alerted anyone loitering outside his office that something was weighing on his captain's mind.

He raised his eyes from the form he was working on at the first head that popped into sight along the door jamb at about waist height.

He raised his eyebrow when the second head appeared just above it.

He leaned back and crossed his arms when a third head appeared.

He had to smile back at the totem of three heads stacked alongside the door jamb peeking in.

"Marco, Chet... John, anything I can help you clowns with? Where'd you leave the rest of the crew?"

"Roy is on the phone and Mike is paying for the pizza. It smells amazing. Man, I could eat almost anything right now, even Chet's nasty hash, oomph..." John was forced to pause his critique of one of Chet's culinary mainstays after his feet were swept out from under his already low, almost horizontal torso. He caught his fall by hugging the frame of the door to slide to the apparatus floor outside of the office.

Hank reached a hand down to lever an indignant paramedic up after he stepped over him on his way to join the other two men who were already half way to the kitchen.

* * *

_Squad 51_...three heads were raised; three burrowed further under shielding pillows. "..._Engine 51_..."

A muffled "Awww, crap," was heard before at least one pillow took flight. The night dispatcher's voice continued without sympathy.

"..._man injured in a __fall, 1090 East Joel Court, one, zero, nine, zero, East Joel Court, cross street Bonita, law enforcement is responding, time out 0312."_

Hank looked over the brick divider as he snapped suspenders in place. _One, two, three, four, five...yep, all vertical and moving._

* * *

The engine cab was quiet during the three-minute ride. Any run dispatched with law enforcement could mean, well, anything, especially at this hour, and Hank knew all minds were running through the possibilities. Mike slowed the engine as they approached the end of the cul-de-sac to allow a patrol car to pull ahead. He parked behind the paramedic squad, well before the turn-around.

"Watch yourselves, men." Hank warned as they climbed down from the engine's cab.

The firemen waited at the curb until an officer's head appeared above a side gate. "Its okay guys, he's back here."

The sheriff deputy led the way as they filed through a narrow courtyard. "He's right where we found him, pinned under the trellis. It looks like he was hurt in the fall, but there's no saying if some damage might have been caused from the homeowner standing _on_ the trellis to make sure he _stayed_ pinned."

The yard lights were on, illuminating the scene well. No longer near the fallen victim, a middle-aged man was off to the left standing with a teenage girl. He had a restraining hand on her elbow, which she was trying to wrench free in between sobs. Roy and John knelt on either side of the light-weight structure which was covered in vines. Roy stretched out on his stomach and reached for a pulse while John tested a corner. "Can we lift this off of him?"

The trellis was lifted then tilted back against the brick wall that had lost its grip on it.

* * *

The boy would live. So would the girl, despite her sobbing assurances that she wished she were dead. Hank sent his paramedics on their way to Rampart with their patient who had a dislocated shoulder and contusions that may-or-may-not have occurred in the initial fall. '_Kid's just lucky there hadn't been a shotgun in the house._

Stepping back through the gate and scanning the backyard, Hank called, "Got everything?" The father and daughter had retreated into the house. His men met him, carrying gear and deep in a discussion of the tactical aspects of where the young couple had gone wrong.

"I'm just saying, the front door might have been more exposed, but woulda been a hell-of-a-lot safer. What do you think, Cap?"

Caught off guard, Hank opened his mouth to voice his appalled opinion.

"He should have used the oak tree; that branch right there looks sturdy enough, and reaches right to the window. The only reason her _padre_ ever caught on was all the noise they made."

Hank's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"A ladder, would've worked better," Mike weighed in with an engineer's opinion.

Hank chose not to make a comment, other than a look of promised reprisals, should the subject not be dropped.

Well trained as they were, his grinning engine crew fell silent.

* * *

They each tumbled back into their bunks, and Hank ran through some re-landscaping plans in his head. When he heard the squad pull in, he rolled over. As John and Roy got settled, a father's last conscious thought was that he needed to buy some oil for the chainsaw.

* * *

**.**

**3**

It had been a quiet beginning to a shift. They'd toured the new storage facility at a refinery earlier. Roy and John had just gotten back from a mutual aid run that took them to Long Beach.

"Hey, Cap," Roy called from the apparatus floor, before stepping into the office. "We checked on Tilde. We didn't get to see her because she was taking a nap, but it sounds like she's doing well. We went up to the NICU; the nurses have nick-named the baby 'Mistletoe' until she gets adopted.

John couldn't quite make out what his captain was muttering from where he stood out in the bay, so he stepped to lean against a door-jamb in time to catch the end of a grumbled "What kind of a name is _that_?"

"It's only temporary Cap, they just didn't like calling her 'Baby Girl Doe' is all."

At the grumpy sound their commander made, both paramedics backed out of the office.

* * *

_Engine 138, Station 51, Truck 116, Engine 110..._

What was it about the act of a group of firemen lifting forks that was linked to the tones? Hank finished taking his first and last bite of what suddenly seemed the best sloppy joe Gage had ever served.

_...Engine 8, Battalion 14, Structure Fire, 23211 Panama; two, three, two, one, one, Panama, cross street 223__rd__ Avenue. Time Out: 1156._

Wiping his mouth with a napkin, Hank stood as chairs scraped and hands reached to grab a few fries "to go".

* * *

They were three minutes out when the rig's radio announced, **"**_County, this is Engine 138 on scene at __23211 Panama_. We have smoke showing _and missing occupants, continue all units."_

_"Continuing all units. Station 51, Truck 116, Engine 110, Engine 8, Battalion 14, with Engine 138, 23211 Panama."_

They were the second company to arrive. The squad turned off at the corner of the block while Marco hopped out to anchor an end of hose at the hydrant. The line un-spooled from the hose bed as Mike continued to drive south on Panama Avenue. A captain's eyes noted the brown smoke showing from the rear of the two-story structure and the thin red fingers that flicked into the space buffering the apartment building directly to the north. A dozen bystanders milled across the street where two LA county sheriffs held them corralled.

Mike stopped the rig parallel to Engine 138, which hunkered in the street waiting to be connected to the hydrant by the engineer standing at its rear bumper.

Hank's eyes scanned in search of a white-striped hat as he reached for the microphone. "LA County, this is Engine 51 on location at 23211 Panama with Squad 51." He swung down from the right front seat of the cab. Mike pulled the engine forward to park her further down the block, leaving the space directly in front of the involved building for the responding ladder truck to claim when it arrived. Hank continued to keep an eye out for 138's captain who, being first-in, would be the designated incident commander until relieved by Battalion 14. He stepped around the front of Engine 138; the look that met him engine-side was not reassuring. "What have we got, Cook?" Hank read the stenciled letters on the back of a turnout coat. "Where's your captain?"

A hand reached to make a panel adjustment; the charged inch-and-a-half snaking away from the side of Engine 138 gave an almost imperceptible shudder in response. Hank's eyes followed the line to where it disappeared through the front door of the ground-floor apartment on the right, northern side of the involved building.

"Captain Spencer took Powell and Watson in to do a search. 'No word from them since. It's been almost four minutes."

Hank nodded to the engineer as he reached for the HT he'd slipped into a turnout coat pocket. "Engine 138, this is Engine 51, do you read?"

The HT he held with expectation answered with silence.

Hank turned in slow rotation, taking in the closely spaced apartment buildings that occupied this block. The fire structure was one building away from the corner where Marco had taken the hydrant. That very lineman was just now trotting by on his way to Engine 51. Hank turned to join him.

Across the street the gathering of onlookers was keeping law enforcement busy. Palpable anxiety and panic radiated to meet controlled scramble as the engine crew of 51 moved to collect and don gear. More than one distraught spectator was weeping; there were shouts and desperate calls to the unaccounted-for. Every few seconds, the volatile cluster would lose its tenuous formation and one of its members would take an agitated step into the street before a uniform pushed them firmly back to the sidewalk.

Hank scanned the front of the involved building's four units, two up and two down. No trapped faces peered out of the windows; no one waved from the upper, shared balcony which connected to the street level via exterior wooden steps. He reached Chet's side as that man turned from adjusting a strap. He keyed the HT. "Engine 138, this is Engine 51, do you read?"

He paused a moment and lifted the HT again. "LA County, this is Engine 51, how do you read?" He handed the Handi-Talkies to his lineman to hold while he shrugged into an SCBA, mirroring the actions of his men.

_"Engine 51, we read you, go ahead." _The juggled HT changed hands again.

"County, we have a working fire with brown smoke and flames showing at the rear of a lower unit of a wooden, two story, multi-family structure at 23211 Panama. Reports of missing occupants. 138 has advanced the initial line in search, no report on their progress, and no response when hailed. Hydrant water has been established. Request an additional alarm, incident designation 'Panama' over."

_"Engine 51, LA County, we copy."_

Hank turned his attention back to securing the final straps of his equipment once the dispatcher's voice initiated the call for the additional units.

Roy and John joined them, suited up with face masks dangling at ready.

"Okay, guys, pull a two-and-a-half and another one-and-a-half off 138. Chet, Marco, we'll have you and Stoker stretch the two-and-a-half dry as far as you can for the interior attack. Roy, John, you'll have the backup line. Be ready to go in but wait for my say-so. That goes for every one of you." The captain spent a precious few seconds on making eye contact with each of his men, knowing full well what he was asking of them.

He started across the front lawn of the four-plex noting clear windows with no smoke showing in the first lower unit on the left but a smokey haze through the cool-to-the-touch panes of the unit on the right. "Engine 138, this is Engine 51-A, do you read?"

Hank stepped between the building and its neighbor to the north and was met with almost overwhelming heat. _Almost. _He tucked his face into the cover of the front lapel of his turnout, noting no windows or doors on either story as he trotted to the rear of the building, SCBA mask gently bouncing against his chest and right shoulder. Once he rounded the corner, he turned to face the crackle and pop of flame snacking on fuel as it reached through a shattered window of the lower apartment. Brown smoke rolled out, and roiled in thwarted escape against unbroken panes on the second floor. Hank opened the electrical box mounted at the corner of building with his gloved right hand and pulled the breakers.

"Engine 138, this is Engine 51-A, do you read?"

He scanned the rear of the building and back yard as he continued counter-clockwise. He placed a still-bare left hand on each ground floor window and tested each exterior door-knob as he passed them. To his right, he noted four empty carport spaces; a small group of people watched from the alleyway beyond.

_"LA County, this is Truck 116, on scene at 23211 Panama."_

Hank recognized Captain Alan's voice. "Truck 116, this is Engine 51-A." "Jim, I'm on my way around, electricity is off, send a crew to get the rest of the utilities. We'll need ladders placed at both rear balconies and some vertical ventilation. There's a lot of heat at the rear northern quadrant; the roof there's probably getting squishy so tell them to be careful up-top. 'Meet you out front for a face to face, over."

_"Copy that, Hank, Truck 116 out."_

"LA County, this is Engine 51, how do you read?" He was jogging past a much cooler southern face of the building.

_"Engine 51, this is LA County, we read you."_

"County, we have heavy involvement of a lower unit with fire and pushing smoke with more smoke showing on the second story. There is a threat to the adjacent structure just north on Panama Avenue, over.

_"Copy that, Engine 51." _

Hank came around to the front of the building. He finished his circumnavigation dragging a hand across a final picture window in front before stepping to join his men staged at the point where 138's attack lead disappeared through the lower front doorway it held blocked open. Two of them bounced on eager toes, a feat, considering they were wearing full turnout gear. The other three members of his crew managed to convey an equal measure of readiness, a perceptible _lean _towards the enemy, the search and their comrades within. Captain Alan and one of his men stood with them.

Hank climbed the steps to join them and turned to the waiting captain. "Jim, 138 made the scene three minutes before we did. Captain Spencer and two others went in. No one is responding."

Jim's "That makes you IC." acknowledged the necessary re-assignment of a vacant role.

Looking into the living room, the thick smoke hung from the ceiling to about eye level in a dark velvet churn.

Hank heard sirens approaching from the south as he loosed his men. "Okay, guys, you're up. Get in there, and find that crew. Pray to God all three of them are still on their attack hose. Keep in touch. We're only gonna have one shot at getting a handle on this before she flashes." He signaled to Cook to charge the back-up line and sent his men through the front door with a clap on each shoulder. Roy aimed a penciled stream at the ceiling in short bursts to cool the smoke and heated gases collecting there. When droplets of water rained down from above, the team duck-walked the lines forward.

"_Truck 116-A, this is Truck 116-B, how do you read?"_

Captain Alan keyed his HT. "I read you, 116-B, go ahead Tom."

_"Cap, the lower rear doors are forced, gas is off and those rear balconies are laddered. No victims in view. Tim and I are headed up-top once we ladder the front exposure, over."_

"Ten-four, Tom. Little Jake and I are heading inside. Report to..." Jim's brief pause asked the new incident commander his druthers. Hank's heart clamored for him to remain close, but he answered with a nod towards a location that would afford the big-picture view an incident commander needed. Jim relayed Hank's choice. "Report to Command Base north of 223rd on Panama when you've got that hole punched, tread safe, over."

_"Copy that. Tread safe, Cap."_

"You and Little Jake..." Here Hank paused with a split-second upward quirk of his lips as he looked up three inches to indicate the six-and-a-half-foot fireman at Captain Alan's elbow. "... start with a search of the apartment above. Pull another hand line off 138's engine, there's a lot of smoke at the rear, where you'll find the kitchen."

Hank and his crew had toured a clone of this building in the past; he was confident that any one of the men he'd just sent inside could give the same description he was about to share with the two men standing before him. "The two apartments on this side of the building each have two bedrooms on the left with a bathroom in between. The kitchen and dining room are at the back corner on the right. The rear exit is straight back from this door. Those two units," Hank's hand swung to indicate the upper and lower apartments on their left, "will be mirror images of what you'll find on this side." He stooped to sort a reluctant section of hose and feed it to his advancing teams as Captain Alan and his lineman headed back to the street and the humming pumps of Engine 138.

The siren which Hank had been tracking with some recessed synapse gave a final _whoop-whoop_. _"Panama Command, this is Engine 110 on scene, over."_

Again, Hank knew the man making this announcement. "Engine 110, this is Panama Command. Chuck, head on over to Command Base at the north east corner of 223rd and Panama; I'll meet you there."

_"Ten-four, Hank, see you there."_

Hank reached to straighten the last loop of the now static two-and-a-half with his free hand and signaled Cook to charge that line. The captain forced reluctant feet to carry him away from the plumping canvas that connected him to his crew. He abandoned his front stoop/temporary command base and backed into the street, head on a swivel to survey the fireground before him. Greedy flames had lengthened their reach for that neighboring apartment to the north.

_"Panama Command, this is Engine 8 on scene."_

"Engine 8, this is Panama Command, send a team to evacuate the apartment to the north of the fire building. Have them turn off those utilities while they're at it. Lay a line from the hydrant at the corner of 223rd and Ravenna. Cut through the alley and give me a water curtain between the two buildings on that northern exposure." **  
**

_"Copy that, Command, will evacuate building to the north, get the utilities and stage a water curtain to cover that exposure, over."_

Hank swung fully around so that he was walking forward and waved the still raised HT in acknowledgement of the officers he passed on the way to the yet-to-be-manned Command Base. He noted the addition of another deputy tending to the civilians still lining the sidewalk across the street. Still another officer was directing traffic at the corner he was headed for; a corner where he met a fully geared-up Captain Chuck Olson and his equally prepared men. After a quick briefing, Hank sent one team of two to supply the promised backup to 116's searching crew. He sent Chuck and a lineman to follow 51's attack lead into the lower unit to lend a hand wrangling the two-and-a-half-inch line.

A new plume of smoke rose from behind the roof's ridgeline where Hank judged 116's "B" crew had just established vertical ventilation.

_"Panama Command, this is Engine 10, on scene." _

Hank's eyes continued to sweep the fireground as he keyed his HT. The building was still spewing a menacing brown cloud. Although the velocity of the smoke seemed diminished, he wouldn't term it "lazy" yet. The appearance of venting steam mixing with the smoke was encouraging, signaling that the attack lines were making a good push while applying 'the wet stuff on the red stuff'.

"Engine 10, this is Command, stage rehab at your choice of locations, over."

_"Copy that, Command, Engine 10 will set up rehab."_

_"Panama Command, this is Engine 51-B, reporting." _

"Engine 51-B, this is Panama Command, go ahead, Chet."

_"We've got all three of 'em, Cap; one was down. __Gage is helping him out the back door. They had water on the seat of the fire located in the rear kitchen wall. We've finished the initial search of this apartment, no victims found, and have added our big gun to the mix. Visibility has improved markedly; 116 must have done their thing up-top_._"_

"Good job, 51. There are two men from 110 headed in to give you a hand. We'll start rotating in some relief crews in a bit. Keep in touch, Panama Command out."

Hank's last act as incident commander of the Panama fire was to formally turn over the reins to Chief McConnike when Battalion 14 arrived moments later.

* * *

The fire had been declared under control for the past 15 minutes. No victims had been found during subsequent searches. The "downed" lineman had perked right up with some O2 and a rehydrating I.V. Roy and John were already on their way back to the scene after escorting him to Rampart. Both the lower and upper apartments on the right side of the four-plex had sustained heavy fire and smoke damage. There'd been fire extension via an outer wall to the second story; drapes had wicked flames right to the ceiling and the roof had indeed become squishy. Salvage and overhaul crews would be on-scene for hours.

The fire had not gotten much more than a taste of the neighboring structure it had coveted; damage to that building being limited to a few boards of scorch-marked siding and the melted bouquet of rainbow-colored plastic Chief McConnike now held. The fused handlebar streamers attested to the amount of radiant heat that had reached a protected alcove the tricycle had been parked behind.

Captain Stanley stood with Chief McConnike near the front bumper of Engine 138.

**"**Hank, I need your honest opinion. Did Spencer simply get tunnel vision when he ignored his first-in duty as IC to join the search, or did he purposely disregard SOP? His initial report left a lot to be desired. Did he even bother with a 360?"

"Sir, I don't know what 138 met when they first got on-scene..."

"Which wouldn't be the case if Spencer had called in a decent initial report."

"I heard he just came into the department on a lateral transfer from upstate. Maybe he hasn't quite reconciled the differences between the two departments."

"Maybe he should. I guess we'll get to the bottom of things when we do the on-scene walk-through. Be sure to leave the lines in place until after we get that done."

_"Panama Command, Truck 46-B, reporting."_

_"Panama Command, Engine 9, reporting."_

"That being said, good work, Hank." McConnike clapped the captain standing next to him on a shoulder before he keyed the HT to take the incoming reports. "My first impression is that the actions you took during those first minutes after you arrived on-scene went a long way towards mitigating those _not_ taken before you got here."

The chief lifted the HT to an ear and waved a hand excusing 51's captain to head off to check in with his engine crew.

The two officers turned without taking notice of the attention being paid by a crouching form swapping out an air tank. Aaron Powell's resentful glare followed an unaware back until that back's owner stepped out of sight.

* * *

Later, back in quarters, all but one of his men were sitting at the kitchen table. Two kibitzed while two moved chessmen across the board. Hank joined the fifth member of the crew, pausing to consider the newly chalked anagram.

Roy looked up from the magazine he was reading, obviously having stationed himself on the couch to catch his captain's reaction. The hand writing was reminiscent of a certain senior paramedic's distinctive script.

Captain H. Stanley

Plan Ye Hat Antics

**"**Cap, tell me again why you burned McConnike's hat. I didn't quite catch what you told Tilde."

"If ever you find me holding your hand while you're in labor, DeSoto, maybe I'll distract you with the tale."

* * *

Hank hung up the phone, and pushed away from his desk. It had been a helluva long day and he didn't know whether to be put out or amused by the conversation he'd just had. He was leaning towards irritation at having to field such a call at such a late hour. He went in search of Marco to find out which it would be.

* * *

**"**How was _I _supposed to know that he had a written SOP for washing the pots and pans? I've met some crazy captains..." Marco paused at the look Hank gave him. "...not you Cap, but Captain Price is one _loco déspota_**." **At his Captain's censorious look, the lineman continued. "Okay, Cap, you tell me what is _normal _about flipping shit over someone washing the dishes _the same way every other station in the county does it, _with soap and water?"

"He says soap and water ruins a cast iron pan and now he has to re-season them all."

"If that's the case, he needs to put labels on them, or maybe one on his own forehead warning of his _tendencia_ to blow up. I'm telling you, I thought he was going to rupture something, that, or bean me with the skillet he was waving around." Marco obviously had taken exception to his treatment while subbing for one of Station 9's linemen.

Hank decided he might as well give in and be amused. "See, you should appreciate me more. I've _never _chased you guys with the cookware, no matter how much trouble you've served up."

"Hey, Marco," Chet called from the couch, "how exactly do you clean those pans? I gotta write this down; I'm picking up a shift next week at that station. No use repeating your mistakes."

Marco answered in Spanish, which Hank couldn't quite translate, which was probably for the best. He used his captainly judgment to decide it was time to diffuse the conversation before Marco went in search of a pan to end it with himself. "I guess we'll just stick with aluminum around here."

Hank leaned to get a better look at what the guys were watching. Wonder Woman seemed to be duking it out with a giant gorilla. He was tempted to join his men in cheering Linda Carter on as she defended the red, white and blue, wearing a scanty representation of each of those hues, but the show was almost over. He turned instead to move through the kitchen, checking that the back door was locked, the coffee pot unplugged and Henry's bowl had water. He set the air popper to making the first bowl of pop corn of the evening.

* * *

When he heard the closing theme song, Hank called, "Hey, fellas, listen up," he checked to make sure each of his men was listening. "I got a call earlier. The all-hands post-incident review of the Panama Fire is set for our next shift on, so we have a few days off to get our thoughts straight. Be ready with your observations and questions; they're planning on it taking at least a couple of hours. As usual, all the companies in attendance will take calls from wherever they decide to hold this shindig."

His men turned back to the television; John stood up to stretch. Hank put a stalling hand on his ever-empty junior paramedic's arm as he walked past on his way to the fridge.

"While I've got your attention, men, I just want to say something. You all did me proud back at that fire this afternoon. We were lucky, and there were no lives lost. Someday, I may have to ask you guys not to go in again, even though we know for certain that lives _will_ be lost, even though every fiber of our beings demands that we do. Knowing you trust me to make that kind of decision means the world to me."

He carried the bowl to the comfortable chair John had just inadvertently forfeited and settled in to see what NBC's _Saturday Night at the Movies _had to offer.

* * *

"Well, gentlemen, I'm ready to turn in," Hank announced behind a covered yawn that extended into an extravagant stretch. He retrieved the bowl from Marco's lap, rattled the old maids into the garbage and made his way to the kitchen. A quick rinse and pat dry had the bowl in the cupboard with the popper before he headed across the apparatus bay. A few moments later, a pillow was righted on the couch; a glass was rinsed in the sink, and one by one, Hank's men followed him.

* * *

**.**

**4 **

"Look-it who we have here, boys," a sloppy voice was heard above the conversational hum of the crowded room. It joined the regular groans and cheers punctuating the NBA game that the television mounted above the bar was tuned to. _The Station_ was a favorite hangout of Carson firefighters, due mainly to the fact that Pete Michaels was part owner and a retired fireman himself. Another drawing card was that his wife, Caroline could cook. It was not uncommon for most of the bar and grill's patrons to have some connection with one of the area's fire services and tonight was no exception.

"'Looks like a pair of Stanley's wonder boys decided to honor us with their presence."

Mike Stoker and Chet Kelly shifted at the table they had laid claim to, wary of the trouble that was stumbling their way. Mike had been leaning over to retrieve a basket from the next table over. Tom Marsh, one of 116's engineers had absconded with it moments ago. The two exchanged glances as Tom relinquished his claiming hold on the unshelled peanuts and Mike sat back in his chair, but not before he cocked it slightly towards the center of the room. Two chair legs clapped back to the floor as Chet righted himself from the tipped-back-against-the-rear-wall position he'd had his chair balanced in.

"Stoker, Kelly, you two wanna swing around this way while we wait for the captains to get here?" Tim Blair offered in an even undertone.

Aaron Powell halted his unsteady progress across the center of the open room to where two of his station's crew were seated. They were from another shift and had agreed to meet the lineman who seemed to need to vent about A-shift's fire down on Panama yesterday. He was buying, so they had watched the game with patience while they waited for their tardy station-mate to show.

"Hey, Marsh!" Powell changed course and swung toward the firemen from 116s seated to his right. "Whatcha doin' fraternizing with these boot-licking chumps? Aren't you afraid some of their chicken-shit fireground-avoidance tactics will rub off on your rookie there?"

Tom, Tim and Scott Wharton, the rookie in question each pushed a chair back from their table. Chet made it half way out of his chair, but somehow Mike beat them all to a standing position and faced the coming confrontation without seeming to be in any sort of rush to do it. With a stilling motion of one hand he held 116's crew in place. He reached into a back pocket to remove his wallet and selected two bills to lay on the table behind him. In keeping with his aura of calm watchfulness, he never took his eyes off the man who was shifting from one leg to the other in agitation and belligerence.

"Chet, come on, we'd best be headed out. Tom, when the captains get here, could you tell ours that we decided to make an early night of it and we'll see him next shift?" He rotated sideways to make a path for Chet to pass behind him and waited for the lineman to accept the silent invitation to take point.

"What's the matter, Stoker? Did your textbook-perfect 360 make you think you weren't safe? Gee, I don't know that you took long enough to accurately weigh the _risk_ involved in hanging out with the real firemen. Maybe you should take another few minutes to mull it over before you turn tail and run."

Mike and Chet were joined by a flanking escort from the three members of 116, who received a pair of grateful glances for their trouble.

"Exactly how long is Stoker's fuse?" Tim asked Chet as the group made their way through the closely placed tables. "I'da flattened the bastard by now."

They'd almost made the exit when Powell's voice marked his position and he caught up with them. The other firemen present in the room, none of them officers, seemed to feel the situation was in hand, but to a man they were monitoring the alcohol-induced drama being staged in a public venue.

"What the hell kind of firemen can stand and watch people and property burn, while their God-damned _fearless_ leader carefully weighs safety and risk. Hell, hesitate long enough and every fire's a loser. I didn't become a fireman to be safe. I _fight_ fire; I don't run from the beast. I don't stand around and deliberate; I get the job done. Someone should be keeping track of how many innocent folk have died on Stanley's watch. Who knows how many people would still be alive if he had the balls to actually command a company."

"Hold up a sec, Kelly," Mike said in a low voice that made the lineman suck in an expectant breath.

"Here's where we find out exactly how long that fuse you were asking about is," he said conversationally to Tim without turning around.

"Hank Stanley doesn't deserve to be called a firefighter; he's a coward hiding behi..."

At the crack of Mike's fist against what sounded like a jaw, Chet turned. "Just about _that _long, he said as he stepped to cover Mike's back in case this turned into something more than a less-than-private discussion between two firemen. The other three standing men stood close, keeping an eye on the men from 138 who still seemed content to remain seated.

The downed fireman came up spitting mad, but his under-the-influence balance imposed a hefty handicap so when Mike twisted and dipped to avoid a furious swing, he missed by a wide margin.

No one moved to catch the man. Mike stood calm, feet rooted in the spot he'd thrown his only punch from. Chet casually stepped out of the path of the flailing man to enjoy a landing with a critical eye. "He really needs to work on his form," he said to no one in particular.

Powell's whole-body follow-through had tossed him into a messy heap of foam and peanut shells. He rolled and slid beneath his pedastalled landing pad as the firemen seated there simply salvaged the pitcher that had survived and moved to another table. They raised their glasses in silent greeting as they passed the men from Station 51.

Mike turned to Chet. "I just wish this was one of those times where I was going to get away with spending more time considering an action than I do explaining myself afterwards."

They chose a table off to the side and sat at it, knowing that mere wishing would not spare them when their captain got wind of the altercation. The usual exodus after game-end seemed postponed. The Budweiser Clydesdales trotted to a catchy jingle; firemen seemed content to nurse their last beer and take in the post game analysis. The studio commentators would have been touched.

Pete Michaels harassed two firemen into picking their stuporous partner up and carrying him out of his establishment, exacting promises on the way that they would deliver him safely to wherever he lived. He thought a more fitting place might be on the curbside with the rest of his waiting garbage, but tomorrow was pickup day and the possibility of the man literally going out with the trash was too much of a liability. Also, there was the fact that the guy _was _a fellow firefighter.

Pete was positive that every firemen present had their own ideas of what bravery looked like. The belief that the only correct response was to rush in when everyone was rushing out was a time-honored, romanticized idea that got firemen killed on a regular basis. It hadn't escaped Pete's notice that he had been permanently barred from doing a job he loved because firemen were "doing what they do" and "getting the job done" during his last fire years ago. He had traded most of two legs for a structure, one that had been standing at the end of a hard-fought battle between brave men and the "beast". The building had been condemned and bulldozed before Pete had been released from the ICU.

As tempting as the symbolic gesture of "putting out the trash" was, family was family and brothers were brothers and with lawsuits being what they were, Pete settled on just arranging for the man's safe deposit somewhere else**.**

Pete trusted that this incident would not be swept under the rug. Someone, of some authority would hear of it. What worried him was that Mike Stoker might be caught up in the coming disciplinary actions. Pete didn't know the man well; Stoker was not what he would call a regular customer. The former fireman certainly had no personal knowledge of what kind of firefighter the engineer was. But from what he had seen of the man tonight, he knew in his gut that here was someone who deserved the honor of working in a profession he himself missed almost as much as he did his own legs. He maneuvered his chair to intercept a man he did know well.

* * *

Captain Stanley paused outside of the tavern, as Captain Jim Alan held the door open for the men on the other side to exit. One of them was performing an excellent demonstration of a fireman's carry.

The man doing such a fine job of removing his fellow shift mate from Pete's presence obliged Hank's reach and twisted helpfully so the captain could turn the unresponsive firefighter's head towards the light. "Don't leave him alone tonight, and whoever you leave him with should check on him occasionally." Hank stepped through the door that Jim still held. "Mine better not be in that condition," he told his fellow captain as he walked by.

* * *

Mike eventually got his wish.

Pete met both captains in the lobby. They spoke for several minutes before Hank moved off toward his waiting men while Captain Alan headed for 116's table. Hank noticed that Jim was making better progress than he was able to manage. By the time he'd gained Mike and Chet's position he'd been given several accounts of the fight, most echoing Pete's with variations on the themes of "Stoker didn't start it" and "He was trying to avoid a fight, sir." The final man between Hank and his men ended with "He was trying to walk away, but Powell grabbed him".

Hank twirled a chair away from a table and joined his bar-brawling miscreants. "So, guys, I hear you had a bit of excitement while you were waiting for Captain Alan and me to get here. I guess I'm sorry we were late."

His men had tracked his progress across the bar room, and both were fully aware of what he'd been hearing.

Mike presented a single statement in his own defense. "Cap, some of the fellas got it wrong. I _was_ trying to avoid the fight for a while there. But even if I might have technically still been walking, I was already planning to throw that punch before he grabbed me."

Chet followed Mike's example and began and ended his testimony with, "I was pretty impressed, Cap. Stoker turned his other cheek; he just drew the line at turning yours."

* * *

**.**

**5 **

The next morning, Hank awakened to the second of A-shift's two-day-stretch-off with a vow to that he was not, not, _not_ going to visit her in the hospital.

He'd made it through a morning of routine household chores and a round of preparations for the upcoming holiday weekend. His in-laws were coming to stay for the week. Their visits were always an adventure in family dynamics; he guessed he would learn soon enough who was speaking to whom when they arrived.

He'd distracted himself further by actually _volunteering_ to finish wrapping the last of the Christmas gifts. The presents were artfully arranged under the Christmas tree with no illusions as to how long _that _would last. His youngest son was a notorious package shaker; he got it from his mother.

* * *

Hank had made that promise to himself in all sincerity and full of conviction, and yet, here he was, standing at Rampart's visitor's desk in the main lobby.

She was no longer a patient.

She'd been whisked away by a system unwilling to share pertinent details with an unrelated person. With one hand, he applauded this sudden, _belated _care and concern for a child who the system, the _world_ had thus far failed. His other metaphorical hand refused to participate in the celebration. The resulting hollowness he felt left him rocking back on his heels.

_You are going to get a quick lesson on letting go of someone you should never have let yourself become attached to in the first place._ There was a raw place loitering somewhere in the vicinity of his lungs which was hanging onto the ache.

_Serves you right you moron. _

Hank ducked his head and made tracks for the most familiar exit.

* * *

Dixie McCall stopped him in the ER hallway. One look at his face caused her to tow him into an empty conference room. He looked around and drew a bracing breath. _Steady Hank, steady; no one has died. She has left. She is safe. She is not yours to keep safe. She is not yours at all._

"What? What is it, Hank? Your wife, the kids? Is it one of the guys?" He could see that Dixie was concerned; about the people she had listed, about him.

"No, Dixie, it's none of the above. It's just I..."

He stalled for a moment, unable to explain why he was so shattered by this loss of something that he never should have tried to own. Under Dixie's watchful eyes, he did not try to hide the fact that he _was_ shattered. _Lord, how can you be such a wreck over something that was never any of your business in the first place?_

_"_Look, I just came in to check on that little girl the guys brought in on Monday, Tilde Shay-Chefler. I guess it's just that I was hoping to see for myself that she was doing okay, but she's been discharged, without my consent, can you imagine that?" Hank shook his head in disbelief and self-chastisement as he acknowledged at least an tendril of the root of his emotional turmoil.

Dix listened as she conjured up a cup of coffee from some nearby nook. She knew he took it black. Hank was somehow comforted by this. He was not one of her favorite paramedics; she did not see him on the regular basis that she saw and interacted with Roy and John. He thought that perhaps he might be one of her favorite _fire_ _captains_ and wondered at the comfort he found in that singularly obscure distinction. An observant woman, this nurse, who had over the years, somehow joined his circle of friends.

A friend who was now telling him to wait, actually _ordering_ him to. He settled into a chair as Dixie disappeared. He assumed she left to deal with one of the daily crises she dealt with as a part of her job and to let him deal with his own pathetic crisis. _Which_ _should not even be a crisis_. Which he should be able to take in stride as a part of his job. _What the hell were you thinking?_ He should have listened to that strident, _wise_ voice that had been mercilessly scolding him for the past three days.

* * *

It turned out she hadn't, abandoned him, to wallow in his self-deprecating thoughts and flagellations.

She returned and settled back into the chair next to him. "Here's the scoop, Captain," she began.

It did not surprise Hank that Dixie had been able to breach the security and cocooning protection placed around a patient but he was slightly humbled at the trust she was extending him by sharing such 'classified information'.

"She's with her grandmother. Social services will still follow her, but Dianne up in Peds met 'Grandma Maddie' and says she thinks it will be okay. No promises of course, but somewhere to start again, somewhere safe to be a kid again..." Dix shrugged a shoulder. "..._finish_ being a kid."

Hank shifted on his chair. _In for a dime. _"What about the baby?"

"Mistletoe had several families auditioning for the honor of taking her home. Although she's on the small side, she's doing well. The nurses up in NICU will have a chance to fatten her up, spoil her rotten while the powers-that-be finish screening the family that hopes to adopt her. It looks like a done deal - the ID card on her incubator has been edited to say 'Misty Danton' although I guess even her new parents have slipped and called her 'Mistletoe' a few times.

Hank smiled his thanks, suitably impressed by the depth of Dixie's research.

"Well, Captain, it isn't a fairy book ending, but it has the makings of one. I choose to believe it does; you should let yourself believe it too." Dixie reached to place a hand on his forearm.

"Hank, it's never a mistake to care. Sometimes it throws you for a loop and you have to redefine which set of rules you are going to honor. Me? I think 'Rule Number One' is something we memorize and practice as rookies and new grads. After awhile, we begin to find our own balance between compassion and detachment; discovering for ourselves just how much distance we have to maintain to be able to do our jobs and how much empathy we can afford to allow ourselves to feel." Dixie got up and took his mug and returned with a refill.

Hank wrapped his hand around it, absorbing more than the warmth of the coffee it held.

"I don't know what to tell you, except that when we decide to throw the rule book out, it pays to go in with helmets cinched, armor strapped on, and if we're wise, an exit strategy. They won't always need us, we won't always get to say goodbye, but we're always going to long for closure. Sometimes we get lucky," Dix said with a brightening smile. "Here, written on the hospital's finest stationary. Tilde left this for you."

"Well, I've got an ER to run." Dixie gave his arm a squeeze. "Don't be a stranger, Captain. Those sliding doors open for more than paramedics and injured firemen." The nurse stood and taking her coffee cup with her, slipped out of the room.

Hank opened the paper towels from the accordion folds they had been dispensed in.

.

_Dear Captain Stanley,_

He paused to note that her letters were formed in juvenile-fat loops. He caught himself scanning for the circles that his daughter had capped her "i's" with for years.

_This is not your daughter,_ that now familiar voice stubbornly began its mantra of caution.

He began to read again.

.

_Dear Captain Stanley,_

_I wish I could have told you in person, but I have to leave with my grandma today._

_I am going to live in Iowa. That feels like the other side of the moon._

_She has cats. And ******* chickens. _

Hank smiled at the notion that Tilde's internal censor could wrestle control of a pen where it had little luck managing her tongue. _Of course_, he thought, _she was no longer in labor when she penned this note._ There was that to consider.

_I am going to live with a cat lady who raises her own ****** eggs. I am_ not _going to learn how to pluck chickens. Can they make you if you are a vegetarian? I forgot to tell you I've decided to become a vegetarian._

_I am sure I will be fine living with my Grandma Maddie who is not finished with her name, and not with me either, I guess. _(smiley-face symbol)

_Thank you for being there when I needed you._

_Please thank Mr. DeSoto too._

_P.S. _

_I asked my nurse about Mr. Duncan and Mr. Schultz. Here is what she said: she does not know who they were either. I guess she had enough to learn in nursing school without having to look up where the names of _(carefully ink-obliterated space) _stuff_ _came from. I mean, if you had to know all the bones in the human body by Friday, would you be looking up something that's not even going to be on the test? She did tell me that a dirty Duncan is rough-looking, and a shiny_

Here, the loopy letters ended with a helpfully placed arrow artfully doodled with fletchings and a heart-shaped arrowhead that pointed to the lower right corner of the paper towel. Hank lifted the first "page" to reveal the second underneath.

_Schultz is smooth and satiny. I guess it matters for reasons which are just too gross to talk about. If I were Mr. Duncan or Mr. Schultz I'd be mad that they were going around naming placentas after me._

_P.S. of the last P.S. You should tell your crew about the hat, sometime. I'm just saying. I bet they need to smile once in a while too._

_ Sincerely,_

_ Tilde Shay Chefler_

.

Hank carefully re-folded the evidence that while it may not be his place to help her, perhaps this small, pugnacious person who had found a way through his defenses had a chance at finding a way to recover a portion of her missing-in-action-childhood. With a sigh, he made a conscious decision to take a friend's advice.

...

* * *

...

"Rule number one: never get emotionally involved in your patients." Season One, _Brush Fire _(Roy to John, then John to Roy), and "Paramedic rule number one: do not get hung up on a patient." Season One, _Nurses Wild,_ (John to Roy)

A/N: Who knows what Schulz and Duncan would have thought about their claim to fame in obstetrics circles? I suspect _Captain Stanley _might be a little appalled to find out that the working title of this anagram tale was originally "Satiny Placenta", which is what sent me delving deeper for a title I thought he would approve of.

P.S. (and a hint) Three anagram kids in this one. ("Mistletoe Danton" is the base you should use for her anagram.)


	6. Ooze Pain, Clamor Not

Anagrams Run Through It All

(Shall Hunt a Roaming Rug Rat)

Marco's batting cleanup. Emergency! belongs to Mark VII and Universal. Beta-kudos belong to Enfleurage.

Marco Antonio Lopez*

(Ooze Pain, Clamor Not)

* * *

"There is evil, and there is good." - Dr. Ronald Wright to John Walsh, father of Adam Walsh and host of America's Most Wanted

A/N: Because of the above truth, be warned. Early reviews indicate that even without graphic details some readers may appreciate the caution flag. Bad things do happen to good people, and since these stories center around children...

*Another A/N: Okay, I know that _technically _I made Marco's middle name up, but since the actor who played him is Marco Antonio Lopez, I don't think it's too much of a stretch to have them share the entire name.

* * *

_Dime con quién ands y te diré quién eres._

Tell me who your friends are and I'll tell you who you are. - Mexican proverb

* * *

...

1

His earliest memory was of green. At the age of three, and loose for possibly the first time in his life, he had been caught up in the sensation of running pell-mell down a row of shoulder-high-to-a-toddler bush beans. The sea of leaves stretched before him for a thousand acres of rows that undulated with the roll of the landscape. That first mad dash of freedom ended when he found himself alone, standing in a trough that dipped deeply enough to block his view of anything orienting, specifically his papa. For a middle child used to being surrounded by siblings and cousins, aunts and uncles, the feeling of isolation was entirely novel. Alone for the moments it took the trailing adult to appear at Marco's new horizon, there had been a feeling of rising terror before his papa swept him up in a panic-dousing swing to broad shoulders.

During the following year, he learned to play with the older children and a great portion of that play took place in the farmland surrounding their homes. He learned to navigate the bean field, collecting clinging leaves on clothing as he raced past and he took the initial steps toward learning how to navigate life.

The December before he turned four, his parents emigrated from the fields of Mexico to Gardenia, a suburb of Los Angeles. Though his landscape changed, many of the lessons learned in the bean field mirrored those he would learn as he grew to be a man.

Years later, he occasionally found his subconscious, sleeping self running through that field, to or away from a variety of monsters and goals. Even now, it was a familiar setting of his dreams and nightmares. To or away, he sometimes woke to the mind-echoing smell of crushed chlorophyll.

* * *

A fuddled brain struggled for a split second, grasping at fleeting scenes and sensations as it made the disorienting transition from sleep to wake. The tiny portion of Marco's dream-fogged mind that expected to find a bean-leaf badge still plastered to a shoulder anchored instead on the ache deep within that joint, a souvenir of a past fire. An alarm clock received a slap and vaporous images fled as he worked his legs free from twisted and hobbling sheets.

He hustled through his morning routine to allow time for a few errands on his way to work.

* * *

It took the subject of the latest anagram a few hours to notice what graced the blackboard because the paramedics started the shift at a dead run and it was early afternoon before they managed to sink into a chair and onto a couch for a break.

John was off the couch the moment he read,

Johnny Roderick Gage

Oh, Raggedy Inner Jock!

"Whadaya mean, 'raggedy inner jock'? That makes it sound like I'm still trolling the halls of my old high school looking for cheerleaders to pick up." John strode into the bay where the engine crew polished chrome and brass. "And who's raggedy? _I'm _not raggedy," he spun in place for a moment under silent gazes that admitted nothing. He started to swivel back to the kitchen and nearly ran over Roy who leaned against the door jamb, a man who also had nothing to offer other than the amused smile he wore. John whirled around again as a new thought animated him further. "Wait a second! You mean we can add punctuation like that? I think I want a do-over. No one told me..." He turned to face his captain who had poked his head out of the office to see what the ruckus was about. "Cap, no one said..."

Five firemen blessed the tones when they dropped.

* * *

They'd been called to a two-story, balloon-framed residence, which, from a firefighter's point of view, meant that architects and construction engineers had conspired to create channels of free access for fire originating in a basement to reach unimpeded straight up to the rafters. With no fire stops in place, flames could skip through an attic crawl space and right down another side, taste-testing anything combustible along the way. The potential for hidden fire spread inside the wall cavities of such a structure was always a very real possibility.

But not today, today what greeted them was an impressive display of the term "fully involved"; the feeding monster had moved beyond stealth tactics and was settling in for a feast. One look told an experienced eye that once the central battle for containment was won, there would be little need to open this home's walls to search void spaces for traces of lingering danger. Odds were, the snapping, smacking flames would leave little _but_ open void and skeleton for the bulldozers to claim.

Since Station 51 was one of the later companies to arrive as part of a second alarm, Hank felt comfortable sending Chet and Marco to the end of a neighboring driveway before he took himself off to check in with Command for a face to face. 51s would all meet back at staging in a few minutes.

In the meantime, Hank thought it would be entirely possible to track the fire's gnawing progress by turning away from chaos and flame to focus on the family of four huddled beyond the beast's hot breath, where two of his men were headed with yellow blankets and, he trusted, a hefty dose of compassion.

* * *

An hour and fifteen minutes later, the dragon proved she could multi task, as did a fire department.

51s were pulled off the house fire and re-assigned to a working fire at an apartment building closer to their usual stomping grounds. By the time they arrived, Hank and his crew had already reviewed the structure's particulars which were meticulously recorded in a binder that was kept on the engine. They had toured the building in the past during inspections and pre-plans, but it had been awhile. Aside from wanting to refresh memories, Hank had checked for recent entries that might chronicle pertinent changes since their last visit before passing the binder with its rough diagram of the floor plan back to the jump seat.

* * *

A sooted window shattered, casualty of a force that had managed to self-vent. The outside ladder crew would never have chosen this particular window to break intentionally, not with active flames on the other side of the building and search and hose teams working in between.

Roy heard the pop and cascade of glass from an alcoved portion of the room to the far left of where he stood. The flashover was nearly instant but Roy had used his head and his head-start to bail out of an opposite window, grateful that they had taken the time to remove the wrought iron bars. As he made his diving escape, the firefighter/paramedic had no time to ponder whether the world and his loved ones could do without his clay pots and beef bourguignon; without a husband, a father, or a friend.

As trust and momentum carried him into the arms of a partner who had remained on the landing of the fire escape, Roy did spare a thought for the asphalt waiting three stories below. John was able to stop Roy's flying trajectory, but fell back against the wrought-iron rail. Both firemen scrabbled for glove-covered hand-holds.

In spite of the glove, the iron of the grating bit the fingers of his left hand. Roy's right hand started to cramp at the grip he maintained on the front of Johnny's turnout coat. It didn't take any higher math to realize that had John gone over the rail, no amount of determination could have held over 235 pounds of partner and gear if it was dangling from such an unorthodox rescue hold. Luckily, both paramedics had been pretty motivated to twist and throw themselves away from the edge. John lay on his side with his SCBA braced against one of the widely spaced vertical posts. Roy rolled to his knees without loosening his grip.

"Johnny?" Roy nearly shouted, not only to be heard through his facemask, but because the situation warranted some higher expression of concern than a lower tone could impart.

John's mouth opened in a struggle to breathe until with a gasp, he managed to suck in a few molecules of air. Pulling his own mask off, he used his exhalation to voice an understated "ow", and before Roy could stop him, he too rolled up to his knees in a maneuver designed to carry him away from post and edge.

In answer to the look of concern on Roy's face, John gasped, "just give me a sec," as he ran through a quick self head-to-toe and reinflated the corners of his lungs.

"I'm good, I'm good. What'd you do in there, break a window?"

* * *

Elsewhere, during the same battle but on a different front, 51's engine crew was advancing an attack line. Stoker was stationed at a side door of the ground floor where a hose was stretched from Engine 110. He stooped to ease a bend and guide another opening loop while he kept a firm grip on the second line they'd stretched to protect the egress, should such an action become necessary. Ed Donahue was standing vigil at the gauges.

Mike had a good visual on Cap and the guys, since they had been brought up short by the need to deal with flames showing in the first apartment on the left. The engineer was keeping track of conditions out in the hall as well as those in the living room where his crew mates worked.

Smoke, to a fireman was suspended fuel in a breathable form. It was toxic, it was combustible and it could build to the point where visibility was so poor anyone trying to move through it was navigating blind. It was one hell of a defense mechanism for a force fireman sometimes caught themselves thinking of as a sentient being. But if it protected the enemy, it could also be used to wage battle against her.

Here, there was smoke, but it hung in a haze that signified that these flames, at this location, were fairly new and had not converted a large amount of material to carbon, smoke and gases. Mike kept an eye on that smoke, reading it for changes and cues as to what to expect next.

Hank read the smoky grey curtain that hung in lazy, gauzy wisps to about eye level.

He motioned for his linemen to finish with the last of the glowing red, trusting them to end the final twisting licks of flame that stubbornly reached and searched for a better stronghold. He moved off, on the prowl for clues. Conditions in this room just weren't all that bad. The smoke was unchanging, and keeping an eye on his crew, he noted Marco had closed the gated nozzle, in effect declaring this skirmish ended. _For the moment._ Hank knew he was not the only one in the room with sweat dripping from neck to kneecaps. Marco and Chet stood at ready, clearly expecting him to find something to attack very close and very soon. _Where was all this heat coming_ _from?_

Hank ran an experimental hand along the opposite wall and then tugged a glove off to try it with a bare hand. Glove back on, he quickly moved around the living room until... _Bingo!_ A captain's signal and his ducking retreat had Marco swinging the nozzle around. Chet followed with practiced rhythm, back braced against Marco's, minding the trailing hose and shifting it out from under foot while supporting most of the weight. Because his back was to the confrontation, he was relying heavily on Marco and Cap to keep them out of trouble as he shifted his stance again and repeatedly wrangled the hose to keep it in line with the nozzle.

Freed from having to worry about anything other than nozzle operation, Marco was able to apply the stream exactly where experience, instinct and a watchful captain dictated.

After taking the initial step of cooling the wall somewhat by converting some of the heat to steam, Cap punched a hole with the ax he carried to check for the fire extension he expected to find.

And so the firemen advanced, checking each room thoroughly. 110's relieved them for an air bottle exchange and they returned the favor. After they'd run through two sets of bottles, they reported to rehab where they spent twenty minutes cooling down and re-hydrating before hoofing it over to staging for reassignment.

Search, discover, extinguish, repeat; put the wet stuff on the red stuff; hunt and chase and grapple with the enemy until this building, these people were safe; this time.

* * *

They were released from the scene and made themselves available at 2205. They were back at the station at 2216. By 2218 they had located the source of the stench that greeted them the moment they stepped foot onto the apparatus floor.

Someone had gifted them with a dead skunk, which waited for them behind the latrine door. 116's A-shift was the obvious culprit since 51s had been trading pranks with them for well over a year.

By 2235 the skunk's remains were double-sealed in plastic garbage bags, and placed outside. Six firemen tumbled into their respective bunks; some of them might have been asleep before the last head hit a pillow.

* * *

They all woke to exclamations of disgust as the first arriving member of C-shift entered the station.

"What the _hell_! Somebody run over a family of skunks with the engine and then try to flush the evidence?" Billy Winston called as he brought his complaints into the bunk room, forgetting that station SOP when entering a quiet, seemingly empty station at change of shift was to let sleeping firefighters lie.

A-shift answered C's youngest crew member with grumbled moans and a pillow flung in the sleep slayer's general direction.

"Sorry, guys, tough night? How can you all snooze through that _smell_?"

"Exhaustion is a time-honored sleep aid," Captain Stanley yawned as he stood to snap suspenders in place. He braced himself on extended arms against the low brick dividing wall next to his bunk and surveyed the stirring troops.

No coughs met his ears, surprising, considering what they'd subjected bodies and lungs to during the two big fires they'd been called out on yesterday. _Gotta love a functioning SCBA. _Then there'd been the sleep-robbing 3 a.m. mattress fire - mostly bluster and fuss, but they hadn't gotten back in until nearly 0430.

Paramedics perched on the edges of the closest bunks, neither one having gathered enough momentum to join their leader in becoming completely vertical. The engine crew behind the other dividers were standing, but hadn't managed that feat without various mutterings and groans. It had been a long, hard shift.

"Time to work the kinks out fellas, I'll start the coffee."

* * *

"It's not like we need to catch them _con las manos en la _masa," Marco continued to explain to the growing ranks of a disgruntled on-coming shift.

_"_With their hands in the dough," Roy answered questioning looks as both shifts gathered over coffee in the kitchen._ "_It means the same as 'catching them red-handed'. 'Work with Marco long enough and you'll be well on your way to becoming bilingual."

"This is A-shift's fault," came Dwyer's _almost _good-natured accusation. "It was you that cornered 116s down in the basement of the training center and soaked them to their wool socks with a Bresnan distributor nozzle." The paramedic held up both hands to still a clamoring defense. "Not that those clowns didn't deserve some pay-back after the way they spent weeks messing with your lights and sirens whenever you weren't looking."

"That's the thing," Dwight Appleton called from where he leaned against the refrigerator. "Until they left a dead _skunk_ in our latrine, it was just between the A-shifts." His voice was drowned by the rest of C's grumbled agreement.

"Yeah, since we're all gonna have to live with that stench until someone figures out a way to get rid it, we'd like to know what you have planned in the way of retribution," Medford, one of C's linemen weighed in with his two-cents worth. "That, and how the hell we're supposed to live with... hey, it's already smelling better, maybe the fans we set up are helping."

"Wishful thinking, Medford," Chet said, figuring full disclosure was best at this point. "It's only that your poor beleaguered nose has thrown in the towel. Professor Stoker over there says that no matter how strong a smell is, if it's constant enough, our brains just shut down and refuse to acknowledge what we can't change in favor of being able to detect any new input that might be necessary for survival."

"Yeah, I read about that in Scientific American," Pete Fern piped in. It's got to do with smell fatigue and receptor saturation."

Chet rolled his eyes. "Scientific American? Pete, you're pulling my leg, right? If all engineers are such geeks, maybe I'm glad I bricked the exam. Anyway, just don't count on not being able to smell it again every time you come back from a run. It seems when you walk into the station after being away it's a fresh slate as far as your nose is concerned."

"Well, guys," John patted Dwyer's shoulder as he nudged his way by on a return trip to the coffee pot. "You should look on the bright side: at least they didn't let a _live _skunk loose to wander the whole station."

"How 'bout you stay over and work a double so you can revel in the knowledge that they were so thoughtful?" Dwight challenged.

"Hank," Captain Hookrader interrupted the sparring between the two shifts with a resigned but somehow energized sigh. "You and your men might as well be on your way. A bit of elbow grease, and we'll have the situation ship-shape and under control, won't we, men?" He clapped and rubbed his hands in contemplation of the challenge ahead.

A-shift headed for the locker room with heart-felt condolences to the crew that would be applying that 'bit' of elbow grease to Hookrader's exacting specifications.

* * *

"You got any big plans for tomorrow, Marco?" Johnny's voice floated from where his head was buried deep in his locker as they all changed and gathered uniforms that needed a trip to the dry cleaners.

"Just some catching up around my place. Saturday afternoon Alex Brandon is covering part of a shift for me so I can help chaperone my niece's belated sixth birthday party at the LA zoo. Since Noel's birthday is on Christmas Eve, Maria and Will usually plan something after the holidays to celebrate it."

Chet straightened from tying a shoe. "How'd you get roped into agreeing to that?"

"Remember I told you my little sister broke her leg skiing? Well, she was supposed to be helping out on Saturday. Since Noel's dad is out of town on business, her mom begged and I caved."

"Lizzy still doing okay?" John asked, stepping around a locker to face Marco and Chet as he buttoned a worn plaid shirt.

Marco shut his own locker and led the exodus to the parking lot behind the station wearing a fond smile. "When I checked on her yesterday morning on my way to work, all she wanted from me was to help her get set up on the couch. As I left, she was planning her pain meds around a busy social calendar of daytime soaps and Gilligan's Island. It's a good thing she's on semester break from college. She'll still be in a cast when classes start up again, but we've got time to figure something out. "

"Let us know if there is anything we can do," Roy offered as he lifted his duffel bag from the bench he'd just stepped over. "...anything short of taking your place on Saturday, that is. I've already survived my own family's yearly pilgrimage to check out the lions and tigers and bears. That zoo is set into a hillside and the inclines are killer if you have to pack tired kids."

Hank turned his face up to assess the January sky, and then dropped his gaze to make a different sort of assessment as his men started to fan out toward their vehicles. None were limping or seemed stiff enough to warrant a captain's concern. "Well, Marco, my pal, I hope the weather holds and it stays nice through the weekend - unless, of course, you are hoping your zoo adventure gets called on account of rain."

"Guys, it's not going to be a big deal," Marco declared with confidence. "They're four little girls. We'll spend a few hours checking out the exhibits, make sure we visit Noel's favorites, the lions, and then we'll open a few presents and have some cake; in and out, _no hay problema_. I'll be back by late afternoon."

He raised his voice to make sure the owner of the vehicle parked three spots away wouldn't miss his next comment. "The worst that is going to happen is my smell sensors will have to re-saturate themselves with skunk pheromones before my brain can register the more important stuff of daily survival, like what Johnny might be trying to cook for dinner."

John indicated he had indeed heard this dig at his cooking skills as his left hand followed his crooked smile into the front seat of the Rover.

* * *

...

2

After pulling their cars into the rear parking lot, one after the other, Marco and Roy exchanged wary glances as they entered the station. An experimental sniff had Roy's face breaking into a relieved smile. "Either my smell receptors have completely given up the ghost, or Hookrader made good on his promise to vanquish the skunk smell."

They made their way to the latrine door and cracked it open enough for Marco to stick his head in and gingerly test the atmosphere inside. "All clear," he pronounced. "Never underestimate the will of _un_ _despótico _drill sergeant. I may not like to work under his command, but you've got to give credit where credit's due."

"In or out, ladies," C-shift's Medford muttered as he slid by. His chuckled call of, "the closest powder room is at Denny's down the street," beat the closing of the latrine door.

* * *

Just before noon, Marco breathed a sigh of relief when Alex arrived at the station right on time and the changing of the guard went without a hitch. There was always a chance of catching a run right before your relief arrived, which could throw a wrench into the best laid plans; try explaining _that _to a child. As it was, he'd had plenty of time to clean up and grab something to eat out of the fridge. The trip to the Raith's home in Torrance should take him just under twenty minutes.

* * *

He opened the door without knocking and caught his favorite, "I'm your _onliest_ niece," mid-flight as she launched herself from the arm of the sofa.

"ThankyouThankyouThankyou, Uncle Marco!"

He carried the chattering girl through to the kitchen where her mother was placing an assortment of snacks in her voluminous purse.

"...and I am going to be a lion trainer when I grow up, but not the kind with a whip. I am going to go to A-fair-ica and take care of the lions that live there. Have you seen _Born Free_, Uncle Marco? I am going to be just like Joy and adopt orphans like Elsa; only my lions aren't going to eat baby antelopes. I'm gonna teach them to eat lion kibble. I might adopt orphan other-animals too, but not if my cubs want to eat them."

Marco met his sister's long-suffering smile over Noel's head.

"...and...and Awwntie Lizzy said..."

"Hold on, there, motor mouth, when did your _Auntie _Lizzy change her name?" Marco swung his squealing niece upside down.

"Put her back down; she has a dress on." Maria softened the order with a tolerant smile as her younger brother complied and set the child upright on her feet. "She picked that pronunciation of "Auntie" up from a friend. Who's to say which is correct? A dialect is neither right nor wrong, it just 'is'."

"Spoken like a true Speech Pathologist. I knew Mom and Dad put you through college for a reason." Marco refrained from the tempting pursuit of yanking his sister's chain about her chosen profession in favor of snatching a cookie from behind her back. "That reminds me of the argument John and Chet had over whether it is '_Root _66' or '_R-out _66."

"I've heard it pronounced both ways."

"Believe me, so have I, _now_, only those two were practically shouting it at each other at the time."

Maria handed him her purse. He let it slide to the floor with a dramatic thump.

"I hope you're bringing a wheel barrow to pack this thing, 'cuz I'm not coming along to be your Sherpa."

Maria ignored the remark as she rinsed a few utensils in the kitchen sink. "How is Johnny doing, by-the-way? You said he spent a night in the hospital a few months ago after his road trip."

"He's back at work to fight another day with good old Chet. Those two would argue over a dead fly if that was all they could find. John was lucky he didn't come away with longer lasting souvenirs from Arizona than a twisted knee and a minor concussion. They mostly just kept him overnight for observation and to warm him up."

"Thank the Lord he's alright," Maria said over her shoulder as she headed towards Noel's bedroom.

Marco snagged a second cookie and turned to wink at his niece. "Hey, what happened here?" Marco interrupted the mind numbing flow of Noel's stream of consciousness which had filled each and every gap in the adults' conversation. He swept his niece's bangs away from her forehead to reveal the rest of the angry red welt that flowed into them.

"Mommy burnt me with the damn curling iron when she was trying to make me be-oo-tiful for my damn birthday pictures."

Marco gave the door his sister had just disappeared through a speculative look. "I bet she was pretty upset when that happened."

"No _I_ was upset. _She_ just threw the damn curling iron in the garbage can."

Marco squatted down to a niece's eye-level. "Come here little El. You know you're not supposed to use that word. I bet your Mom only said it because she was so upset that you got hurt."

"Uh huh," a French-braided head nodded in agreement, "and she said when it shows up in the pictures, we'll have proof of what a squirmy little..."

Maria brushed past the pair and took her daughter's hand before holding out a set of car keys. "Time to go, Noel Maria. Marco, you're driving and we need to stop and pick up the other three party-goers on the way."

Marco took pity on his red-faced sis, and let her bossiness slide.

* * *

The adventure started out well enough with a hike to the backside of beyond because Noel wanted to see the lions first. By then all four of the shorter females had to use the restroom.

**"**You be here when we get out; I mean it little brother." His sister was being bossy again, but Marco took it in stride.

Amethyst Truegale came skipping out first and perched her innocent-looking self on the picnic table. He'd turned his back for less than fifteen seconds and the little girl managed to pull a piece of gum from under the table top while Marco was standing three feet away. She swallowed it before he could make her spit it out, and then bent to look under the table to peruse the smorgasbord of flavors available for her next selection.

"Cut that out, you're gonna get sick, and you're gonna get me in trouble," Marco hissed as he plucked the miscreant up and away from the table. He cast a worried glance over his shoulder as he made her rinse and spit at the fountain three times.

Maria found them there because after the second time Marco caught Amy searching for her next selection he wouldn't let her within five feet of the table.

"_Hijole_, what is wrong with this child? _Clandestino_ gum eating..."

"She's five, brother, she needs no other excuse. I suspect they don't let her have it at home, you know: forbidden fruit and all..."

"So, do you have anything in that Mary Poppins-bag of yours that might help? Does she need to go on antibiotics?" Marco dropped his voice. "Do we have to tell her mom?"

"What? Tell her that you let her only daughter eat ABC gum from under the picnic table at _the zoo_? I thought you were watching her. How much gum did you let her swallow?" Maria kept a straight face as she leaned down to peer into all corners of Amy's mouth. She held out her palm and with an impish grin, the girl deposited a wad in a waiting hand.

Marco muttered something in mixed dialect that his sister missed.

After she'd let him fret for another minute, Maria gave in, mostly because she couldn't keep a straight face a moment longer. With a sigh she decided she must be getting out of practice in the little-brother-teasing department.

"Look, calm down, _hermano_. Think about it. The way she honed right in on the under belly of that table, she's probably done it before and lived to tell about it."

Marco turned to face his sister, who was calmly pulling out boxes of animal crackers. "How can you be so blasé about this? What rule book are you working from these days?" Marco's eyes narrowed at the obvious enjoyment she was deriving from the situation. "Just exactly when did you go from scrutinizing labels for artificial ingredients and empty calories to adding recycled gum as _un legítimo miembro_ of the four food groups? You practically had kittens when I fed Noel a bowl of fruit loops."

Maria shrugged a shoulder and dangled a box by its string in offering. "You fed her those before returning her that same morning to my house. You weren't the one who was going to have to ride the sugar-wave with a three-year-old. Fast forward, little brother; I am learning to choose my battles. Ask yourself, one: will Amy live? Two: can you get that wad of gum back by any means that does not necessitate a trip to an ER? Three: why yes, I _do_ happen to have a small bottle of Listerine in my bag." She handed him one in triumph. "And don't knock my purse. You only _wish_ you could pull off such a utilitarian fashion accessory. If it will ease your guilt and lower your blood pressure, have at it. Try to get her to gargle, don't let her swallow, and don't get caught having her spit in the bushes." Seeing the dubious look on Marco's face, she snatched the bottle back and said, "Oh _fine_, you big wuss. But you're watching the other three while I take her back into the ladies' room." Maria made eye contact with Wren, Noel and Heidi. "Behave, you three; keep your Uncle Marco entertained and we'll be right back."

"We'll be right over here," Marco called over his shoulder as he followed three little girls bee-lining for the monkey exhibit.

* * *

He had always been uncomfortable around the zoo monkeys. Chalk it up to a childhood traumatized by the flying monkeys of Oz. This theatrical element of creepiness was reinforced by _The Planet of the Apes _and its four sequels. Finally, their experience with Koki, the real-life Capuchin Typhoid Mary of primates had nothing to offer in the way of healing for previously inflicted cinematic scars.

Marco had nothing against _wild_ monkeys; he could watch an entire documentary on Jane Goodall and her gorillas with nary a shudder. Those critters were safely tucked far, far away in a jungle, not flinging monkey pooh through the bars to an impressive radius. He picked Noel up to swing her out of range. He did the same for Heidi and turned to herd Wren away... _Where the hell did Wren disappear to?_

* * *

"You owe me big time," Marco said as he opened the station's front door for Maria and Noel after parking his own car in the rear parking lot.

Maria breezed in carrying the left-over birthday cake. "Nah, little brother, payback comes when you need babysitting for your own _bebés_ someday." Noel was skipping, almost as excited to get to visit her uncle's fire station as she had been about the trip to the zoo.

Marco led them back to the kitchen and held the door open for the pair before following them through. "Whoever says I am ever having kids is _muy loco_. This afternoon was enough _control de la natalidad _to last a lifetime."

"I'll be sure to let Mama know how you feel about her. Just last week she was telling Mrs. Luna at the church bazaar what beautiful babies you would have someday."

Maria had been in the station's kitchen on a few occasions in the past and opened a cupboard in search of a platter. She settled for the shallow pan her brother handed her, and transferred most of the cake to it. "And if she heard you, Mama would wash your mouth out for talking like that."

The glare a sister received in response would have sent a weaker advisory scurrying for cover. Instead, Maria continued with a smug grin, "I foresee a chat with Father Michael about the evils of birth control." She punctuated that prediction with a sharp smacking of her lips as she licked a bit of hot pink icing off a finger.

The entire crew was witnessing this exchange with undisguised amusement as Noel twirled in the kitchen, arms swung wide while belting out "_Born free, as free as the wind blows, as free as the grass grows, born free to follow your heaaart!_" Chet swung the irresistible elf up and carried her over to see if Henry was only pretending to be asleep. During the ride to the couch she continued singing with abandon. "Staaay free and life is worth living, but only worth living..." Chet added his tenor to help bring the number home. "... "'_cuz YOUR'RR BORRRN FREEE!'"_

* * *

"The animals in that zoo aren't the only ones that need to be confined," Marco declared with conviction as the whole crew stood on the cement apron in front of the station to fold the salvage tarps that had finally dried after an earlier run. Mike was on the other end of the tarp Marco held as they worked in tandem to form crisp accordion folds. "Those _ninás_, those sweet little angels should have been the ones behind bars. I'm telling you, guys, it will take me weeks to recover."

"And you thought it would be a walk in the park. 'Not a big deal, _no hay problema' _you said. Well I warned you, pal, didn't I?" Chet called from where he and Cap were folding the tarp they held between them**.**

Marco was building steam and felt the need to vent further, so he let Chet's comment slide as he warmed to the continuing tale of his harrowing afternoon. "So besides having to re-locate little Wren Read not once but _three_ more times, there was Heidi Markens.

_"Mierde,_ that tiny girl has a set of lungs on her that put the Howler Monkeys to shame. She shrieked at _everything_...the lions, the swooping birds in the aviary... she even shrieked at how cute the little goats in the petting zoo were." Marco added a newly folded addition to the growing stack. All five of his shift mates were content to be silently entertained as they finished the chore.

"Sometime after I lost my hearing, she stuck her tongue out at me and dropped her glasses into the penguin's enclosure _on purpose. _When she realized she might not be getting them back anytime soon, she started to_ really _make a fuss_. _I was about ready to go over the fence to get them when an employee showed up to see what all the commotion was about; it sounded like someone was getting eaten alive."

Having run out of tarp to fold, the crew assumed various relaxed positions as Marco finished his tale. "After she got her glasses back, the little _ella diablo_ pretended to have a crush on me which only gave her an excuse to clutch my leg every time she felt a shriek coming on." The lineman placed a finger in one ear and shook his head. "Cap, I may need to have my hearing checked before our yearly physicals are due. I think that _niná_ did some permanent damage."

"You know, Marco, my nieces would probably love a trip to the zoo. Since you're an experienced tour guide and all..." Mike let the suggestion drift on a teasing note. Marco made the engineer carry their stack of tarps to the engine and stash them by himself.

* * *

"Well, did Noel get to see her lions?" Roy asked as they tucked into a dinner of John's taco surprise and the yeasty rolls that Cap's wife, Rosie, had dropped off half an hour earlier. They were still warm and Chet closed his eyes at the smell that wafted up when he broke one open and lifted it to his nose with an appreciative sniff.

"Let me tell you, you haven't lived until you've watched a 275 pound lioness size your niece up for snacking possibilities." Marco was buttering his own roll and caught a melting drip with the edge of his knife. "They were separated by a cement grotto and a chain link fence and Noel was totally oblivious, but I'll be afraid to close my eyes tonight in fear of having nightmares about that kitty and her twitching tail."

Chet reached to serve himself a second helping of casserole and decided he needed to balance that action a bit. "Gage's cooking will probably keep us all up tonight, so you'll have plenty of company."

* * *

...

3

Cap bounced his pen on the clip board he held as they waited for an uncharacteristically late lineman to join them for roll call.

"There's our zoo-safari hero, now," Roy called when Marco slid into place. "How're those hamstrings feeling after a day of rest, Bwana?"

"Glad you could join us Lopez. Looks like the only chore left on the duty roster is..." Hank pretended to check the list, and smiled at Marco's resigned sigh. "Sorry, pal but the latrine is all yours."

* * *

Marco was working safely behind the closed bathroom doors when Chet discovered the newest anagram as he mopped the day room floor.

Chester Kelly

Thy Cells Reek

Chet took the insult in stride and chalked an additional anagram right below it.

Marco Antonio Lopez

Olé! Mr. "No Panic at Zoo"

* * *

Mike placed a small pottery peacock on Chet's bunk after he had neatly smoothed the blanket. In the days following their response to the Crenshaw mudslide, Chet had gone on and on about how beautiful the Palos Verdes peninsula was. More than once he'd waxed poetic about the feral colonies of peafowl that were the controversial icons of the area. The entire crew had suffered through repeated soliloquies on the birds' history and the pros and cons of living with these lovely but noisy and messy, non-native residents. In retaliation, his shift mates had joined forces in picking up suitable peacock-themed kitsch at yard sales and church bazaars. It was amazing how prevalent and varied the little figurines were. Chet had curtailed his Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom-like tutorials by the time the third or fourth peacock showed up on his pillow, but he had yet to cry "uncle", and until he did there would be no foreseeable end to the swelling of his flock; Mike himself had three more samples waiting in the wings in his locker.

* * *

Late afternoon found both rigs pulling up to a building that coughed clouds of light tan smoke from several windows and an open receiving dock.

**"**Kelly, see if you can get the keys to that semi and pull it away from the building. Lopez, Gage, each of you pull an inch-and-a-half," Cap ordered before he lifted his HT. "LA, this is Engine 51 at scene. We have smoke but no fire showing at our location; continue all units."

Marco stretched his right arm above his head, catching the top edge of the cab's frame to swing his weight down to the pavement below, something they'd all done untold times. This time his index finger caught and his arm jerked in resistance before gravity and momentum won and he landed in a balance-catching stumble. His body took three strides toward the back of the engine before his brain registered the searing pain that lanced down his finger, slashed behind his thumb joint and continued halfway up his forearm.

On autopilot, Marco lifted a left foot onto the rear tailboard ready to boost himself up to pull a shoulder load of hose. Loops of the inch-and-a-half that John was stringing were already sliding off the hose bed. Instead of gaining altitude, his left shoulder made a jarring contact with the rear of the engine. Marco closed his eyes for a moment and willed himself not to allow a pair of knees to fold. It took Stoker's hand on his shoulder to turn him away from trying a second time, and Mike's concerned gaze to make him look down to what was causing that concern. The end of his index finger was spurting bright red in time with the pounding heart beat behind his eardrums.

"Ah, Mike, I think I might need a band-aid," he said absently as the engineer grabbed his wrist in what felt like a vice and jerked it above his head.

A call brought Roy and Cap as Mike nudged and guided him to sit on the engine's tailboard. There was some receding commotion as his world narrowed and centered on the throb and pulse of radiating, mesmerizing pain.

* * *

Marco sat out the rest of that fire, winning a trip to Rampart and some paid vacation time while his shorter-by-half-an-inch finger healed.

A few days into that recuperation Marco watched the guys bowl and tried to figure out how to keep score for them with a right index finger bandaged to the size of a small burrito. Chet stood close, complaining about how gruesome it had been having to retrieve the tip of a finger from the rain gutter that rimmed the engine's cab.

* * *

...

4

By the time Marco returned to work, a few weeks later, Charlie-the-mechanic had retrofitted the department's entire fleet of Ward LaFrances with strips of wood to fill the sharp-edged gutters until a more permanent fix could be implemented.

"I'm telling you, the least they could 'a done was reattach your whole finger tip. I mean, I was _traumatized. _I had to use a Phillips screwdriver to pry..." Chet flinched in a turn-and-duck maneuver when Cap frapped the back of his head with a sudsy hand. "_What? _I'm just saying'..."

"Knock it off, Chet," John cut in from where he dealt another hand at the kitchen table. "The only _trauma _that's happened since Marco tore off_ part of his finger, _has been to everyone's ears as we listened to you whine about your delicate sensibilities. Anyone'd think you were the one that ended up in ER."

"Look who's talking, Mr. Sensitivity. Who was it that thought of plastering his locker with Snoopy band-aids?"

The loser of the first hand of poker turned away from washing the last dish to meet Marco's eyes in an assessment of how he was taking John and Chet's argument over the loss of a finger tip a few weeks earlier. Hank was able to read tolerance and more than a touch of humor there so with a roll of his own eyes he let the conversation continue and turned back to the chore of drying the dripping dishes he'd just racked.

_"Que es lo que es," _Marco said mildly. "The doctors did what they could and managed to salvage a bit of skin to cover the wound, so your heroic rescue efforts were not in vain, _mi amigo." _He held up his hand and turned it to contemplate his finger-cot-encased digit. This was his first shift back since the injury, and although it smarted a bit if he whacked it, the extra cushioning was allowing him to do his job without too much discomfort.

"Just be sure to let one of us know if you re-injure it; no being brave and trying to work while you're in pain or anything," John lectured as they each considered the hands they'd been dealt.

_"Un burro hablando de orejas," _Marco countered. He automatically supplied the translation, "the donkey talking about ears," as he threw away two cards and received replacements. "Besides, I _had_ to return to work; I needed an excuse not to be able to join Noel's first grade class's annual field trip to the _maldito_ zoo tomorrow morning. Not much could compare to _that _particular brand of torture."

Roy shook his head over his cards but smiled over the way Marco seemed to let his niece wrap him around her little pinky. "You should probably attend a twelve-step seminar on how to "just say no" when faced with cherubic wiles before she has you promising to take her to that new Chuckie Cheese place they're building up in San José. Now _that _sounds like a torture chamber in the making.

"No, Gage is right, Marco," Chet piped in as he also discarded two. "Your mama was telling me about your high pain tolerance and stoic self control-edness when we crossed paths the other day. She had a real cute story to tell about when you were all of four years old and your wee little toes got caught under the kneeler during high mass at church."

Mike held and Roy dropped a single card on the pile. Chet waited to be sure he had everyone's attention and ignored Marco's warning glare. "There he was, just a little guy, foot being crushed by the weight of his fellow parishioners, not making a peep. The only reason Mama Lopez even realized what was happening was there were tears running down her son's face."

John exchanged four cards, as they all pondered the scene Chet had just painted. More than one wore faint smiles of recognition at the poignant tale. Play continued until their now-triumphantly grinning crew member fanned the winning hand out for display. Marco swept in his winning chips, a right forefinger cocked at a protected angle.

"Everyone of you should know by now not to hide an injury, so I don't need to worry about whether or not Marco here is _wise _enough to let me know if he needs to bow out of a situation, _do _I, _amigo?" _A captain accepted the good-natured snort he received from Marco as agreement to the accuracy of that statement and he set aside the dish towel.

The crew began a leisurely migration into the day room to see what the television had to offer in the way of entertainment.

* * *

...

5

One learned of the missing child the next day via the early news on TV, the others were alerted through swiftly placed phone calls. Within the hour, they all found themselves joining the search of 133 acres of a zoo and its surrounding area.

They gravitated towards Mrs. Lopez, since Marco was nowhere in sight.

"Where can we help, Mama Lopez?" The woman who was both the glue and the steel of her sprawling family turned to meet the compassion radiating from the members of her middle son's fire _familia. _For a moment, her tightly held composure slipped and twisted and Hank stepped close to enfold her in a supporting hug. With a deep, centering breath, Mama raised her back-under-control face and reached up to pat _Capitán_ Stanley's cheek in fond gratitude.

The five-foot-nothing matriarch sent five firemen to join her son in searching the gridded area he'd been assigned. She escorted the wives to a table where the ladies from St. Anthony's hovered over organized lists of tasks. Joanne and Rosie were soon headed to the nearest grocery store to pick up food and supplies for the seeming horde of civil servants and volunteers.

The thwap-thwap-thwap of a helicopter passed over the searcher's heads and an elderly woman again bowed her own.

* * *

Two days later, a six-year old child remained missing. Height: 44 inches, weight: 43 pounds, long, dark brown hair, brown eyes, last seen in the crowded gift shop of the LA zoo, over by the stuffed animal display. Hank mentally filled in what details the posters and local news snippets left out: bilingual chatterbox, lover of all things four-footed, light of her parents' hearts, and also of a certain lineman's. He pushed away from his desk, as restless as the other men who had been forced to break away from the search.

The bulk of the shift yawned before them, and so far nothing dispatch had set on their plate had served to distract them for longer than the time it took to set a scene right.

Jason Belt, the first to volunteer to cover Marco's shifts, sat back and watched five men as they prowled the station in nervous energy.

Finally, Hank called a shift meeting just before noon, hoping to redirect some of the building frustration by making plans for their upcoming days off.

"He's not gonna have to do this his own," Chet announced with conviction.

His crew mates forgave him for stating the obvious, each having their own fears as to what "this" might eventually entail. The brainstorming session was interrupted by the ring of the station's phone. They all braced to rise; only settling slightly when it was clear Cap planned on answering it himself.

"LA County Fire Department, Captain Stanley." Hank paused to allow the caller to identify themself.

"Hey, Dan, any news?" He stood with a hand in his pants pocket, jingling a set of keys. His men waited patiently while he listened to Dan Castillo, a fireman out of Station 105 and lifelong friend of their absent crew mate.

"Of course one of us can be there. If you think of anything else, just let us know. Otherwise, we'll see you at the Lopez's tomorrow. We may need to grab some sleep, depending on how tonight goes run-wise." Another pause, and then, "Thanks for calling, Dan, see you then."

Hank turned and faced his men, running an agitated hand across the back of his neck. _What more was this family going to have to endure?_

"Dan Castillo says the police have asked them all to take polygraph tests, the entire family." Hank was grateful his men managed to contain most of their outbursts at this statement, although he had no trouble understanding their obvious shock at this news. He was having enough trouble wrapping his mind around this new development himself. Hank bulled ahead with the rest of what Dan had just shared. "It seems statistically, most missing children are taken by family or people they know, so the police want to start ruling everyone out. Dan just wanted to give us a head's up. He's working next Tuesday when Marco's test is scheduled and I promised we'd be close before, during and after; whatever he needs."

He wasn't even going to try to dissuade his men from _all_ showing up in support of Marco; by the looks on their faces it would be a wasted effort.

* * *

The next afternoon, Castillo was pouring over a map of Southwestern United States with the crew of 51. Someone from the church paused next to them and made a comment about what a rock Marco was being for his family. They each looked to where their friend and crew mate stood with his mother who refused to stay seated or to be limited to waiting by a phone.

_"De tal palo, tal astilla," _Castillo said. "From such a stick, such a splinter," he added without looking up, as accustomed as Marco was to supplying automatic translations of the Mexican proverbs and sayings that frequently slipped out.

_The apple doesn't fall far from the tree. _Hank thought in paraphrase as he watched Marco cant his head at an angle to better catch what his shorter mama was saying.

* * *

The active door-to-door, flood-canal perusing, empty lot-empty building-empty hands portion of the search dwindled within several days when frustrated people ran out of places to shine their flashlights and dogs lost the scent in the drizzle of rain.

Airport, bus and train personnel had been briefed early on. Noel's likeness competed for space with concert announcements and pleas for lost pets on vertical surfaces in an ever-widening area. Police departments in six adjoining states had already received five copies of the poster; the fire departments each received at least twenty-five. There were stacks of them spreading to a network of truck stop diners, distributed by CB-wielding drivers. Everyone seemed to be on the lookout for the missing child; the little girl with the impish grin that reminded them all to hug their own children in somber gratitude and worry.

The out-of-town contingent of Noel's extended family eventually had to return home; all except Noel's parents returned to work. Marco himself was the last to do so, under the insistence of Will and Maria.

* * *

"Engine 51 in quarters," Hank announced over the radio as Mike idled the engine behind the squad.

They had just wrapped up a fire in a box car over in the railroad yards east of the station, and Hank drummed his fingers on his thigh as he contemplated the man and woman who scurried out from in front of the bay doors. Once Roy and then Mike had backed the rigs into place, Cap turned to face the jump seats. "Marco, Chet, you two go see what's salvageable from lunch." After a moment's thought, he sent Mike in after them with a tip of his head in the kitchen's direction. He swung down out of the right front seat to join his paramedics who had already stepped out of the apparatus bay.

"Roy DeSoto, do you trust Marco Lopez around your six-year-old daughter, knowing that he is being investigated as a person of interest in the Noel Raith case? How does your wife feel about you working with a man suspected of kidnapping or worse?" The questions were called rapid-fire from the cement apron in front of the station and hung in posed malignancy.

Hank started forward as the female reporter stepped further back from the skirmish taking place six feet in front of the squad. A spectator, and thank-the-Lord there were none, would have had trouble deciding which paramedic was restraining which partner. To Hank's eye, it was definitely a mutual hands-on response of support and restraint as the two reacted to the reporter's volley in stunned anger and disbelief.

Hank followed the woman's retreat back to her partner who was now standing on the side-walk. "Ma'am, as I understand it, every family member and several close family friends were asked to take a polygraph test. That doesn't make any one of them a 'person of interest', it makes them each willing participants in the investigation. Marco himself told me he was glad to take the test so that the search could move forward." Both Roy and John had immediately settled and straightened once the shock of the questions had been absorbed. Hank could feel the outrage radiate from each paramedic now stationed at his elbows. There was a good bit of that particular emotion threatening to flash from a point somewhere _between_ those two elbows. "Steady, men," he murmured just under his breath. _Steady._

"Every fireman that works at this station puts his life in Marco Lopez's hands on a daily basis. Wives and mothers and children trust him to have their loved ones' back. And he has _never once _failed them or us. No one who knows that man could imagine accusing him of anything remotely like what you're suggesting. Anyone with any kind of integrity would get the facts before raising such a question; anyone else should be ashamed." Hank swept the pair and the _thank-the-Lord _still empty sidewalk and parking lot across the street with some of the heat he was holding back.

The other reporter, the one snapping pictures, had allowed his lens to dip. The female reporter, a woman in her mid twenties, refused to back down. "Just because someone _has_ been trusted, doesn't mean they _should_ have been." She scribbled a few notes in a small note-book. "This is just evidence of your hallowed brotherhood of firefighters and time-honored loyalties. Of course you all are going to support him to the last. It would take one of you catching Marco Lopez burying the body under one of those bushes over there," she jabbed her pen towards the shrubs to the left of the building, "... for you to believe that your sainted shift mate could be capable of such a thing."

Hank's weight rocked back on his heels before he simply put voice to his first reaction, an honest one. "You're probably right. Now if you'll pardon us..." He refrained from making further comment because he was swinging towards the human teakettle that was beginning a warning sputter on his right. Roy moved to John's other side, obviously having the same thought. The woman they turned their backs on had provided fodder for a number of rants; a few of which Hank himself longed to indulge in. John was gearing up for what promised be an epic tirade.

The three of them made the bay and Hank brought his hand down on a switch. By the time the lower edge of the door kissed the cement of the apparatus floor, John had tamped down most of his ire at the accusations the woman outside had spewed and was manfully extinguishing the remainder of his righteous indignation, well aware of the acoustics inside the station.

"She just referred to Noel as a _body," _was the single comment that escaped, and even that was carried on a barely audible hiss.

* * *

It was almost dusk of their next shift before Marco and Roy found themselves alone. Actually, it had taken Roy a few minutes to locate the lineman where he was leaning against the back of Johnny's Rover, mostly hidden from view of the station.

"What's the verdict? Do you and Joanne want me to stay away from your kids?"

The question came as no surprise; Marco had been uncharacteristically quiet since they'd gotten back from the rail yards two days ago. The term 'uncharacteristic' had taken on a fluid sort of meaning ever since the disappearance of a niece tore a wound in an uncle's soul.

Roy joined his friend in facing I-405 as it passed behind the station. It was funny how none of them ever noticed the traffic noise that enveloped the station day and night except when they came out to the back lot in need of a quiet moment.

"I'm sorry you heard that reporter spouting off. I won't lie and say Joanne and I didn't discuss it. We're parents, how could we not?" Marco's silence and shadowed face revealed no clues as to how he was taking this admission, so Roy pushed on. "Look, it's not like we ran some kind of a risk assessment to decide if we were still going to let you be around our kids. And it's not like it was a long drawn out argument. Did we discuss it? Of course we did. Someone, a thoughtless, career-driven reporter slapped it on our plate, and we were forced to digest it." Roy let some of his frustration leak into his voice because, hell, what was the point of pretending they weren't all stressed by the ramifications of Noel's disappearance. "What kind of parent, what responsible person can look away and ignore any of this? But here's the thing, Marco. Now that we _have_ talked about it, there is only one answer Joanne and I can come up with. We trust you as much as we trust anyone, as much as we trust ourselves. Nothing that rag of a newspaper can print in the name of hard-hitting journalism can hold a candle to that, _nothing_.

The dark couldn't hide the raw hurt that Roy could sense, and that unresolved doubt propelled him into the kitchen to pick up the pay phone.

The night air had not cooled the leaning spot that Roy's shoulder had just vacated before John ambled up and covered it with his own. "Hey, there's a phone call for you." When Marco offered no response, John added, "By the look on Roy's face he's willing to stand there holding that receiver until the next tones drop."

Marco stood as he listened to what a fireman's wife had to say on the subject of trust. Once his crew mates saw a lessening of the pain etching his features, they trickled out of the kitchen. He was left to endure a short lecture on listening to friends and ignoring shitty little headline-grabbing gossip-mongers. By the time Joanne came up for air, a ghost of a smile threatened to supplant a minuscule portion of the haunt that lurked behind it.

* * *

Hank imagined there was a lot of missing-child-related phone activity going on throughout the greater Los Angeles area. Someone had told him that the Raiths had installed a second line at their house to handle all the in-coming tips. It shouldn't really amaze him that some of it would slop over and find an uncle at his place of work.

There were the understandable calls from family members. Marco's brothers raged from out of state, forced into long-distance spectator-ship by jobs and obligations and life. Lizzy had made the difficult choice to return to her campus rather than drop all of her classes. Hank did not begrudge this family their need to stay connected. What had him shaking his head in wonder and some disgust was the variety and sheer volume of calls Marco was having to field.

* * *

Marco stood with a bracing arm on either side of the payphone after having hung up the receiver. His head dipped just enough to set Chet off.

"Damn it, Marco, next time she calls, just tell her she needs to find a shrink or a pastor or someone else, _anyone_ else, to talk to." The linoleum under Chet's chair gave scraping protest as he shoved away from the table. "You shouldn't have to be the one to reassure her over and over that it wasn't her fault. Hell, maybe she does need to take some blame. She was the one in charge of the field trip; she was supposed to be keeping track of those kids."

Marco swung away from the wall. "_Maldita sea_, Chet! And just who else besides Noel's teacher should we blame? Her mom and dad for signing the permission slip? God? An uncle who could easily have just said 'yes' and been there to hold his niece's hand?"

Marco and Chet stood facing off in front of the kitchen sink; friendship and frustration broiling between them. The rest of the crew was evenly distributed between the kitchen and the day room and held their peace and their breath until Chet peeled away in a distancing stomp out the side door. Marco spun in the opposite direction, heading out onto the apparatus floor without comment or eye contact.

Silence hung between the four left behind until moments later the phone rang again. Looks were exchanged but no actual rock/paper/scissors, and Roy, who was closest answered it on the fifth ring.

"LA County Fire, DeSoto speaking."

"No, ma'am, Marco's not available at the moment, but I can take a message."

"I'm sorry to hear of your loss."

"I'm real sorry you had to go through that..." Roy turned to give the others a resigned look and leaned a shoulder against the wall to settle in for the duration.

* * *

Noel's parents were near collapse; it only seemed to be a matter of who would succumb first, one of them or Mama Lopez. The seventy-one-year-old woman had the entire collection of her close relationships concerned over her refusal to slow down.

And Marco stood buffer and support, while still managing to perform his job flawlessly. His shift mates remained watchful and close, not only to lend a hand when they could, but to ensure that if he should falter, he would not fall far.

Mama Lopez's body eventually betrayed her. Weeks of running ragged, trying to hold her extensive brood together finally took its toll. She spent a night at The Memorial Hospital of Gardenia for a work up of the radiating pain behind her left shoulder. Marco spent that night at her bedside and showed up to work his scheduled shift only because the doctors ruled she would be in no danger as long as she got some rest.

The church ladies of St. Anthony's took turns checking on her. Joanne DeSoto and Rosie Stanley shifted their focus to picking up some of the slack left by a side-lined force of nature.

Mama Lopez went home the next day with a strict order for continued bed rest. Lizzy and her cast moved back home to stay with her mother and act as reinforcement for that order; it wasn't as if she was able to concentrate on her studies anyway.

The Lopez clan regrouped, gathered their strength and continued.

* * *

Marco startled from the nightmare. Although his bean field had been the backdrop, the child had not been a younger version of himself traipsing through crowding rows of parting leaves. This child had huddled in a terror that morphed into his own to send him rolling from his bunk.

Something woke Hank, leaving his his mind sifting for cues as to what had disturbed him. He shifted to his back. After a few moments of listening to an anonymous rustle and the distinctive soft snore that indicated Mike was sleeping on his back, he stepped into his bunkers to investigate further.

Marco met him at the latrine door, a door that had been open long enough for a captain to catch the gist of what had gotten his lineman up before dawn. Hank asked his questions without words before they both crossed the apparatus floor to the kitchen.

Marco sat at the table and raked both hands through his hair before pausing with fingers interlaced behind his head, elbows still raised. He nodded his thanks for the glass of water set in front of him. "I'm okay, Cap. I think it must've been something from dinner that didn't settle quite right."

It was the baldness of that lie that wasn't settling right, and Hank waited for his hedging lineman to realize it.

With one ragged breath and a defeated slump, Marco surrendered. "Cap, did you ever get lost when you were a little kid? You know... maybe wander away for a moment, just long enough to scare the crap out of yourself when you realized you were alone." Silence hung as two grown men revisited a few of the minor traumas of their childhoods. "What if she's out there, scared and alone, waiting for someone to rescue her?" Marco paused and with his eyes closed, tipped his head back in a struggle to limit the spill of anguish to his whispered, "What if she's not?"

* * *

...

6

Five and a half weeks after a six-year-old had been lured away from her fellow field trippers with the promise of her very own Elsa, Tony Edmunds tucked an HT into a turnout coat pocket as he and his crew mates headed into a grocery store 855 miles north of where dozens of die-hard searchers concentrated their efforts.

Tony spun on his heel to return to the ladder truck that was sitting in the far corner of the parking lot. He reached up into the jump seat and snagged the shopping list Jerry Baker had sent them off with. Spuds was a particular man when it came to all things culinary. Tony himself couldn't tell a chive from a green onion, and from past experience he knew enough not to risk ticking the station's best cook off by making any wild guesses from memory. The block letters on the rig's aerial ladder declared it to belong to the Eugene, Oregon Fire Department. The ones he scanned on the scrap of paper he held spelled out the ingredients of possibly the best Cajun gumbo to be had anywhere west of the Mississippi. _What the hell is filé powder? _The truck man jogged to catch up with the crew.

Someone who had measured 44 inches at her last check up tensed when four boisterous firemen appeared at the end of the aisle she and the Man now occupied. Without lifting her hair-shrouded face, she watched from out of the corner of her left eye as one of them ducked three steps into the aisle and quickly selected a bag of something and returned to toss it into the shopping cart. She very nearly broke the rule when the turnout-coated men moved out of sight.

The Man tossed six cans of tomato soup into the cart where she knelt, taking no care to see that none of them bounced off an already bruised body. The child did not flinch or raise a fuss when two of them connected with a thigh covered in the same jumper she had worn when she left for school on a day her mind shied from thinking about, as it did every other day of the thirty-eight since she'd been stolen. She shifted her grip on a stuffed animal.

_"Buffalo gals, won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight?" _The hated one sang in a low voice as he shoved the cart along to make further selections. "_Buffalo gals won't you hmmm hmm hm hmmm," _he dissolved into a lower hum and lifted a box to squint at a label.

The wire at the bottom of the cart bit into bony knees as the child worried a loose baby tooth, sister to the other upper one that had fallen out at Christmas time. She wondered if the tooth fairy would be able to find her to place a dime under... _where would a fairy leave a dime if someone no longer had a pillow to tuck it under? _She didn't spend any energy mulling over that question; all of her concentration and senses were dedicated to the monitoring of the Man and the slightest of his movements, all senses save one. She spared part of her hearing to try and track the position of the four men who continued to joke and call to one another as they made their way through the store.

_"Buffalo gals won't you come out tonight, come out hm hmm." _A hand snaked out and she barely flinched when it stroked her hair in counterfeit tenderness as a woman bustled by them. The stroke turned into a savage pinch to the rim of a translucent ear once the woman had passed. It continued in a twist of warning until that person turned at the end of the aisle and disappeared. And still the child retained her silence; fingers gripped the stuffed lioness in pain.

_"...come out tonight, and dance by the light of the moon?"_

They stopped in front of the place where the fireman had made his selection. A bowed but alert head shifted ever so slightly to allow her to mentally sound out the letters R-I-C-E. The Man's back was turned when the clomp of two sets of boots approached.

"Geeze, Matt, I said _jasmine _rice, you yahoo. It says 'jasmine' and there's no way we're gonna show up back at the barn with anything but the gen-u-wine article. Give me that." Tony reached and snatched the bag his partner teasingly tried to keep out of reach.

Tony slowed his steps when he noticed the middle-aged man standing behind the cart and its occupant. All three were parked next to the spot he was headed for. He was in a hurry, always cognizant of the hassle it caused everyone when they got called out on a run with a full basket of un-paid-for groceries but never-the-less he slowed.

Some kids could be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of his line backer frame encased in a turnout coat, and the girl before him seemed more timid than most. He caught the glint of a dark iris through a curtain of dark, tangled hair and winked at the girl before turning to hunt out the spot where Matt had randomly plucked the _wrong _rice and then found the last item they needed before heading to the checkout stand.

The fireman stood not three feet away from where she crouched under a brutal grip that curled over a shoulder and dug into the tender spot below her right collar-bone. She checked her own grip on a plush toy.

Having made his selection, the fireman flashed his most winning smile at the little girl and turned to join his partner. In the years that followed, for the rest of his life, he could never pin point what exactly it was that caused him to turn back when he did. When questioned, he usually settled on citing the uneasy feeling he had about the whole tableau behind him. During more introspective moments, he thought it was a specific tug of guilt, like he was abandoning some wounded animal to suffer in trapped silence. For whatever reason, he turned.

Noel threw herself forward, twisting and wrenching her shoulder from an already relaxing grip. She launched herself at the retreating fireman, well before he turned and caught her. It never occurred to her that he wouldn't.

Matt reached his partner's side even as Tony was recovering his balance. It was easy for Matt to explain why he had moved so quickly. Years of shared teamwork had honed his instincts and he had picked up on Tony's unease, perhaps before Tony himself was aware of it.

The man let out a howl of frustrated rage, but did not try to breach the wall of canvas that now separated him from his prize. A prize that he'd believed had been conditioned and trained not to make even the slightest effort to approach or communicate with anyone during their weekly trip into town. He spun away and headed towards the nearest exit.

Tony spared the man no attention as he held on to the child who seemed determined to burrow her way further into his right turnout coat sleeve. Matt called out a "Grab him!" but remained rooted to the shielding position he'd adopted in front of the pair. His partner seemed to be trembling, but Matt quickly realized it was probably a conduction of the alarmingly violent tremors coming in waves off of a small body. _Or maybe not, _he thought, once he himself started to shake in sympathy.

* * *

...

7

Hank's pen beat a rapid tattoo on the ink blotter that protected the top of his desk. The days and weeks that Noel had been missing had been hell, but the ones since the Raiths had recovered their child weren't shaping up to be anyone's dream of a swift and sure happily-ever-after. Noel had yet to speak in much more than mono syllables and clung to a stuffed animal that matched ones the zoo carried in their gift shop, refusing to set it down for any reason. She wanted to sleep in her own bedroom, but woke nightly in tears.

By day, Noel's pale shadow was unable to express the palpable fear that sometimes seemed to enfold her. Her abductor might be behind bars, but his ability to cause pain had certainly not been curtailed. No amount of adult conviction that she was "safe now" had been able to keep her convinced that she was. The entire family was looking more than a bit haggard.

Hank had just ended a lengthy phone conversation with Dr. Preston, the psychiatrist they'd chosen for Noel.

Last week her parents had both noticed that their daughter seemed more relaxed at the fire station during a visit with her uncle and the rest of A-shift. They'd mentioned this at her next therapy session and the doctor had suggested that perhaps they should honor Noel's preferences and arrange for a few more visits and see where that led.

Over the past few days, Hank had ironed out the details, feeling like he was proving the axiom "It's easier to ask for forgiveness than to ask for permission," with every phone call he made. No one from HQ was against the plan per se since it wouldn't really be stretching policies already in place, but no one wanted to set a precedence. Hank had countered with the assurance that it wasn't like they were planning on starting a day-care. One of her parents would always be in attendance, hanging back to let Noel interact with the guys but always prepared to leave with the child should an alarm empty the station of firemen.

There had been one shared concern: the intense scrutiny the press had given the whole ordeal of Noel's abduction. No one wanted to attract more attention or invite critisism. But, Hank was quick to point out, interest in the case had already begun to wane. The front page was for adrenalin, terror and sensationalism; more than one of the adults in Noel's life were grateful that their story had moved out of the spot light. There was the added hope that since many of the visits would be scheduled during the firemens' traditionally 'free' time in the evenings, they might fly further under the radar. In the end it was decided they would deal with any curiosity when and if it happened, and play the rest by ear.

Today's conversation had allowed the doctor to offer some advice and answer a few of Hank's questions. They ended with plans for weekly updates and one last caution from the doctor. These therapist-sanctioned visits came with a therapist-grade warning: if Noel began to open up to the men at the station, such a bestowed honor may come at a price.

* * *

...

8

Gentle hands folded and fondled the extravagant, velvet Basset-ears that spread out across her lap as the grownups of Station 51 went about their daily business and her daddy read the newspaper at the kitchen table.

* * *

A silent elf scurried to perch a peacock on a pillow. Five minutes later, an 'uncle' and a 'niece' paused their industrious shining of a squad's headlights as another 'uncle' set the brightly colored figurine on a cherry red hood with a playful growl.

"Someone's gonna have to help me name this one, 'cuz I've run out of ideas. You know, I think there's only one grape Popsicle left in the freezer, I'll race you for it."

* * *

J. R. GAGE

Egg J_ _

Roy was at the black board with Noel, using John's name to explain how an anagram worked. He had her rapt attention and won a ghost of a smile when she caught on and added an "a" and an "r". She brushed at a stuffed animal's nose to remove the dusting of chalk it received during the process.

Maria rolled a warm mug between her palms as she visited with Chet and Mike at the kitchen table. "I'm sorry, I know I should be grateful just to have her back, and oh-my-God, I am. But I can't help resenting that she hangs onto that thing like it's some kind of lifeline," she admitted in an undertone.

* * *

"He said Mommy and Daddy didn't want me anymore, and that's why he had to take me home with him." Small hands tugged and twisted the tufted end of a stuffed lioness' tail.

They all had been coached as to what the correct response to a variety of questions and announcements might be, but for the life of him, all Marco could manage was to open his arms and accept the misery that climbed into his lap.

"Don't tell them."

Marco finally found his gone-missing voice. "Don't you think they'd want the chance to tell you that just isn't so?"

"I didn't believe him!" came an emphatic declaration. "I didn't! But he said it over and over and he was a grownup, and..."

Marco was working off-script which was just as well since he seemed to have lost all vocal ability again except the "sh-shh" sound he was making as he rocked the child and himself until tears turned to hiccoughs and hiccoughs turned to soft breathy snores.

* * *

"Mommy doesn't like Elsa."

Chet thought it best not to agree heartily with that observation and stalled for a moment as he pulled out the piece of stiff paper he had just upended a full-to-the-brim glass of water on. They were alone in the kitchen and he put a finger to his lips and tugged Noel into a seat at the table where they picked up abandoned hands of "go fish".

"Why do you think that, little elf? Have you got aaaa-ny eights?"

Noel checked her cards before ordering the fireman sitting next to her to "go fish." The six-year-old studied her cards and her answer in silence. "She just doesn't. I think Elsa maybe makes her remember I got stolen. Have you got any two's?"

Cap and Noel's father returned from a brief chat in the office. Will scooted Noel over on her chair and then relocated her onto his lap. She carefully turned her cards to give him a peek.

Hank paused for a moment, and took in the scene before him. He didn't miss the too-innocent look Chet was goading him with, or the fact that most of Noel's face was hidden behind a school of fish-motive cards. He made sure Chet didn't miss the meaning of his returning gaze; one that promised that this was going to be a one-time occurrence. With a similar promise to himself, he wandered over to the counter and positioned himself to give the full dramatic effect before upending the waiting glass as if he were planning to fill it at the sink. He choreographed his swift sidestep with a gasp so that he got away with only a moderate splash. He rounded on two criminals and a witness in order to catch the smiling eyes above Noel's cards, a wink from his lineman and a surprised guffaw from Noel's dad.

"Well, I guess you got me this time, guys. You two know where the mop is," Hank said as he wiped the countertop with a dish towel. He bent to whisper something private in Noel's ear as she scurried past to get the wheeled bucket and then straightened again. "Excuse me, while I go and drip-dry," he said before taking himself off to do just that.

Chet immediately noticed Noel's change in attitude. They were finishing up their card game and the little girl was watching him like he was going to turn into a bug any second. "What? What'd I do?"

With an exaggerated huff she folded her cards with a "tsk". She leaned close for a whispered scold, "You shouldn't ought to cheat at cards, Uncle Chet. Nobody's ever going to want to play with you if you do."

* * *

Hank returned Noel's goodbye wave as her mom pulled the silver Accord away from the curb. As soon as they were out of sight, the captain went in search of the crew member that seemed to have gone missing.

The last time he'd seen Mike had been over twenty minutes ago. His engineer had been taking a short break from mundane firehouse chores to offer his expertise on the finer points of managing a cat's cradle. Hank had paused a moment to appreciate the scene. Noel had been standing on one of the chrome steps to the engine's jump seats, bringing her close to eye level with her six-foot-two tutor. She and Mike had hovered over the tangle strung between two small hands, foreheads almost touching. They'd been deep in conversation as Hank continued on his way to the office.

He spotted his engineer leaning against the brick at the rear of the station, polishing a brass coupling with more vigor than was strictly required. When Mike slid down the wall and set the fitting aside to press the heels of his hands against closed eyelids, Hank backed away. Mike would come in when he was ready; not to break confidences, but to absorb the quiet support he would find once he absorbed whatever horror had been placed in his keeping.

* * *

"What's wrong with Henry, Uncle Johnny?" a concerned voice asked.

"He's just dreaming." John bent to tug on a dark braid before lifting an end of the couch to shift it away from the wall, giving it a playful wobble in hopes of eliciting an excited shriek. What he received was a still-snoozing canine sigh followed by a whimper as four legs twitched in pantomime of a remembered chase. At Noel's continued look of concern, John set his mop aside and knelt by the couch to run a soothing hand over doggy ribs. "I'll bet he's after a rabbit or maybe trying to keep old Herbert the mouse out of the station."

"Maybe it's a nightmare that he was stolen and he's trying to get home."

The dreamer in question cracked an eyelid and licked a little girl's hand. His tail gave three solid thumps before he rolled his Basset bulk in her lap until an ear draped over the edge of the couch and one paw dangled above his chest. It raised and flopped with each deep breath as he relaxed back into sleep.

"Maybe, but it looks like he knows he's safe now."

* * *

"Uncle Chet, why do you sound so funny?"

"I just ate a lot of smoke at a fire we had last shift and I think I'm coming down with a cold on top of that." A harsh, gravely answer was carried on a rattle from deep inside Chet's chest, but he chased it with a smile as he put away the dish he was drying.

A frown canted at the same angles as furrowed, puzzled eyebrows. "Why did you eat smoke? What did it taste like?"

"It tasted like sh..."

Roy turned from where he and John were entering their reports in the logbook and smoothly cut in with a warning look at Chet. "That's just a figure of speech, honey. Firemen say it because when we breathe too much smoke, it's all we can smell or taste for awhile. It makes our throats sore and our voices all nasty sounding."

Chet threw Roy a mixed look of umbrage and thanks, for the less-than-complimentary description of his scratchy voice and for the smooth save from his faux pas.

"Hey, Chet, do know why the pony always whispered?"

Playing along, Chet gave a pat, albeit gravely response, "No Roy, why _did _the pony always whisper?"

After a pause that just begged for a back up drummer's "baa-da-da-dum", Roy answered in his best laringitisy voice, "... because he was a little hoarse."

Smiles and a few rolled eyes all around except for one look of obvious puzzlement. Noel rested her chin on the table deep in thought.

A few minutes later, Will entered the kitchen after making his usual stop by the office to touch bases with Captain Stanley. Hank followed behind with the dual intent of greeting Noel and getting a coffee refill.

"Daddy, Daddy, do you want to hear a joke?"

"Sure, pumpkin, let's hear it."

"Why did the little pony always whisper?"

In perfect vaudeville timing, Will supplied his line. "I don't know. Why _did_ the pony always whisper?"

Noel provided the answer in a tinkling soprano, "Because he was such a small horse!" The laughter that the inadvertently bumbled punch line received was genuine, as was the smile on a little comedian's face. She all but took a bow.

Chet's chuckle turned into a coarse hack.

"Roy, John, one of you better check him out; let me know if he needs to take the rest of the shift off."

After a quick exam, it was decided that Chet would be going home with his aggravated raw throat, low-grade temperature and congested cough.

Noel hovered close during the assessment as the grownups in turn watched and wondered at her growing agitation.

"Uncle Chet, I'm sorry you don't feel good."

Chet, as concerned over Noel's obvious distress as the rest of the men in the room, spoke from a distance, in an effort not to share germs with her if he turned out to be infectious. "It's nothing, little elf. I'll drop by my doctor's on my way home to see if I need to breathe in some special medicine or take something for my sore throat. Then I'll go home and take a really long nap. In a few days, I'll be right as rain. I promise."

Noel still look worried. "But Uncle Chet, you don't have anyone to take care of you; you're a lonely batter."

The tones went off before Uncle Chet could correct her.

* * *

"Uncle Cap'n? Did I leave Elsa at your fire station?"

Hank was glad the obviously distraught Noel was on the other end of the phone-line so she couldn't see the smile that was proving difficult to quell. He held the receiver against his chest, sobering as he wondered how many frantic calls had been placed while they put out a trash can fire that had gotten out of control and threatened to engulf an entire backyard of shrubbery.

He motioned to the guys as they entered through the kitchen door, Chet brought up the rear looking as if they had just fought a three-alarm blaze by themselves. His replacement should arrive within the half hour.

Uncle Cap'n's "Anyone see Elsa?" was all it took to start a bona fide grid search for the missing treasure.

Within half a minute Johnny produced the stuffed lioness, after he extricated her from under an immobile Basset head.

"Gimme that, Henry," Gage scolded. "This is _not_ a pillow."

"Noel? Yeah, sweetie, we found her," Hank spoke into a phone receiver now held between his chin and shoulder as he continued the fluffing process John had begun before handing off the very-important-stuffed-one.

"Mommy says it's almost my bedtime and we should come get her tomorrow, or that maybe Uncle Marco could drop her off after he takes his nap." Hank was having trouble with his face muscles again. He reminded himself that this was serious stuff to Noel. "I'm sure your Uncle Marco could drop her off after his nap," he assured her, checking to see if any his men were following the conversation. He gave up the battle and let his smile join the others'.

"Well, I was thinking, maybe Uncle Chet could take her with him for a sleep-over. They could take care of each other. Can I please talk to him before he goes home sick?"

* * *

"Please, Uncle Roy? I can't reach. Please erase it?" Noel's jumping swipes with the felt block were falling several inches short of erasure.

His hand was obeying the whispered request even as he read what a cohort had chalked in an obvious attempt to tickle a six-year-old's funny bone.

Henry Basset Hound

hunt, bay, shed, snore

She shot a worried glance at the snoozing object of the anagram before she explained in an anxious whisper, "It'll hurt his feelings." Tears were gathering.

John joined his partner and Noel at the chalkboard. He assumed the squatting position they had all adopted weeks ago when addressing Noel rather than tower above her. "You know, I should have thought of that. I'm sorry, little elf, can I try again?"

Noel's dad and five other sets of lungs breathed a collective sigh of relief when John performed a slick rescue via what had to have been a back-up offering.

Henry Basset Hound

Hero bays; hunt ends.

Johnny thought the smile of approval and forgiveness Noel bestowed upon him ample reward for the effort he'd invested into wrestling an acceptable anagram out of her canine pal's name.

* * *

"Fi-ive, ten..." A puzzled face looked up from concentrating on the coins in an engineer's palm as its owner practiced counting change, a new and troubling subject for someone who had missed a fair chunk of first grade.

"How 'bout you start with the two quarters first?" came a gentle suggestion.

"Twenty-five, fif-ty..." She started again with more confidence.

* * *

"Noooo, Henry, you're supposed to come find us!" A frustrated Noel returned to stand in front of the couch with hands on her hips. The hound raised his head only when a four-footed, excited bundle of energy threatened to invade his space on the couch.

Jason Roer, a young lineman just out of his probationary period, had dropped by with Spotmop, his four-month-old Dalmatian. With a chagrined smile, he had explained that the pup's name had morphed from a solid fire-family tradition of "Spot" to one more descriptive of the difficulty he'd had mastering house training.

Before the pup could make good his threat to pounce the older dog, the tones went off causing the paramedics to scramble for the squad. The noise and commotion sent the pup racing after them in excitement.

"Grab him!"

Excitement turned to alarm when hands reached and feet stomped in pursuit. Mid way across the apparatus floor, alarm translated into incontinence and the pup lost his footing and slid in his own poop. Noel, hot on his heels, slid too. They both disappeared into the bunk room as the bay doors lowered behind the squad and its wailing siren.

Inside the bunk room the trail led across three bunks. The smell was _everywhere_.

They found the pair hiding on the other side of Cap's bunk, huddled under a blanket. Noel was crying and when she raised a tear streaked face she squeezed the wiggly, smeared pup tighter, "I know he did something bad. Something really, _really_ bad - but I _love_ him. Please, don't make him go away!"

The silence was painful. Maria Raith stood mute and stunned in the doorway.

In Hank's book, young Jason Roer earned a merit badge for intuition and timing when he instantly dropped to his knees in front of the two refugees from a sewage dump. "Nah, we love him at our house too. He's staying; that's what family's all about. Nobody's perfect, and hey, what's a little poop amongst family, right guys?"

A recovering mother muttered, "What a shit storm."

Chet was the first to laugh. "Mike, we're gonna be testing that phenomena of smell saturation and nose fatigue again. B-shift is gonna love this."

After a quick size up, Cap took charge.

In less than fifteen minutes, Noel was standing back in the dorm looking pretty adorable in one of Mike's spare undershirts and damp pigtails, saying good bye to an also-damp-but-clean mass of spots and wiggling joy.

"Mommy, what's a shit storm?"

"Ah, I didn't say that, I said 'ship storm'. You know: when boats get caught in big storms, things sometimes spill and they have to swab the decks? That's what I meant."

Marco straightened and mouthed the word "liar" from where he was re-making a bunk.

"Oh, I hope their puppies don't always get too excited 'cuz this is awfully hard to clean up."

Cap handed her a pillow. "Yep, it is that, isn't it, little elf. Here, you put this pillow in a clean case while your uncle puts these blankets in the wash, assuming he can stop laughing long enough to make himself useful."

* * *

"Promise you won't tell?"

As he felt his gut roll and bare its underside in anticipation and surrender, Hank put his pen down and turned to the child sitting at the other desk, her head bent over a coloring page.

* * *

R. DeSoto

Set Odor

.

N.M. Raith

Thin Arm

Although this shift's anagram offerings did not produce the giggles the paramedics were fishing for, an arm-wrestling match ensued which would have had an outside observer (if they were very gullible) convinced that the men of station 51 were repeatedly thwarted by a skinny arm made of kryptonite. The firemen weren't exactly throwing the matches since each technically ended in a draw, but a small wrist never neared the table. Mike finally ended the game by standing and lifting a stubbornly clinging opponent and carrying her nonchalantly around the room dangling from a forearm as if she didn't weigh in at forty-five pounds.

* * *

"I'm s-orry."

"It's okay, El. Can you tell me why you wanted your mom and dad and Dr. Preston to think we were headed to the zoo?"

Marco sat on a park bench not two blocks from the Raith's neighborhood, a niece tucked under his left arm. Every few seconds a shuddering, _silent _sob would accompany an intake of fresh air. The heart absorbing these seismic tremors was shattering along familiar fault lines, memorized over the past eight months.

Eight months ago, Noel had been the family's drama queen. It used to be a running joke that the wails and waterworks she was capable of dredging up would one day earn her an academy award. Dr. Preston, her therapist for the past seven of those months seemed reassured that Noel was able to cry at all following what she termed "such a significant trauma." Marco thought it one of two of the most gut-wrenching cues that something deep inside his niece remained wounded. The other was that Noel had yet to laugh. He held on and waited.

"They wanted me to go _so_ _much_."

_Okay, maybe not the most gut-wrenching._

"El, your mom and dad love you; they want you to be happy. They thought, we _all_ thought, you wanted to go see the animals. No one wants you to do something that makes you sad." Marco's mind was sifting through past conversations for evidence of what they'd all missed. They'd assumed Noel's insistence that her first trip back to the zoo be with only her uncle was a reflection of a continuing need to protect her parents from sharing her hurt. It seemed that they had only been partially right.

"I _do_ want to go. I miss the otters and the lions and, and the giraffe baby is getting big and I haven't gotten to even see him yet. It's just when I think about going to visit them I start to feel..." Here it seemed, a six-year-old's vocabulary failed her as she turned her face into a chest that somehow maintained a deceptively calm rhythm.

Marco forced himself to take another even breath and managed a counterfeit smile. "_Nińa_ _dulce, _it will be okay, I promise. What shall we do with the rest of our morning, eh?"

* * *

...

9

The background chaos faded to white noise as Marco stood aside and surveyed the group he was with.

Cap had joined Roy who stood with his son and daughter in front of the same monkey exhibit where Marco had first lost an intrepid explorer named Wren during a previous visit more than a year ago. He smiled as he caught himself automatically gauging distances and judging the small group to be safely beyond the chimps' pitching range.

Natalie, Cap's fifteen-year-old daughter, had come along to bolster the ranks of the adults. She held Mike's niece, Patti up to better see the young giraffe standing near its mama, without releasing Mike's other niece's hand.

John was off to one side, standing sentry with Mike; each were wearing dark sunglasses. They could have passed for secret agents except John kept stealing pinches of frothy pink cotton candy from the cone Mike was holding for one of the younger kids.

Chet and his nephew were horsing around at a nearby water fountain.

Marco allowed himself to focus entirely on the pair who had claimed much of his attention during this excursion; in reality, for much of the past year. Maria knelt next to Noel in front of a plaque that proclaimed the two giraffes loitering not ten feet away to be of the Masai variety. He smiled at a giggle-producing tickle, and again at a whispered exchange.

Noel seemed mesmerized by the two sixteen foot giants standing with their heads canted together in a gossip-like pose. Suddenly an astonishingly long, dark blue tongue stretched out to lick deep inside a neighbor's velvety ear. A clear peal of laughter rang above the white.

* * *

...

A/N: Four Rug Rats this final go-round, no wait, _five_... one of them has a tail to wag. One last hint: use Noel Raith as the base for this story's star rug rat's anagram.

Now that this series of anagram tales is finished, you'll find an answer key to the rug rats' name-anagrams posted in my profile.


End file.
